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THE COMPLETE WRITINGS OF 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

rat 

autograpl) €bition 

WITH PORTRAITS, ILLUSTRATIONS, AND FACSIMILES 

IN TWENTY-TWO VOLUMES 


VOLUME XVI 














Let us begone from this place 








THE T7KITirTOg> OF 




HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 






I 



TALES AND SKETCHES 

t# %t 

BY 

y 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
QTlic Ettoentlie preisci, CambTitse 
MDCCCC 





THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Two Copies Received 

MAR. 5 1901 

^OPYRIQHT ENTRY 

Oi.ASsCiL%^ No. 
COPY B. 


{ 7,9 ' 9> S(> 

v/ 0 L / («* 


COPYRIGHT, 1876, JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
COPYRIGHT, 1883 AND 19OO, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


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LC Control Number 



2003 536511 







TABLE OF CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTORY NOTE .... 
FANSHAWE ..... 

THE ANTIQUE RING .... 
AN OLD woman’s TALE 

ALICE DOANE’s appeal .... 
THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS . 
APPENDIX. 

THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 
THE HAUNTED QUACK . 

THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 
MY wife’s novel .... 

THE BALD EAGLE .... 


PAGE 

lx 

I 

185 

207 

223 

244 

^55 

272 

289 

308 

343 


V 





LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“ Let us begone from this place ” (page 173) 

F. C. Tohn Frontispiece 
Vignette on Engraved Title-page: “He . . . 

SITS HIS HORSE MOST GALLANTLY ” (page 11 4) 

F. C. Tohn 

“ How HARD THIS ELDERLY LADY WORKS ! ’’ 

L. Lander Phelps « 220 

The spectre of Walter Brome 

C. S. Chapman . . 240 

The children . . . ran to meet me 

’Jessie Willcox S?nith 294 
“ Attention to the roll call ! ” 

C, S, Chapman . . 352 







INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


Fanshawe was published in 1828 by Marsh 
& Capen, Boston. It bore on the title-page a 
motto from Southey, “Wilt thou go with me?” 
a curiously appropriate motto for all of Haw¬ 
thorne’s writings; for it has a wistful, mournful 
cadence, and its invitation is like a beckoning 
hand. Surely Hawthorne in his novels and 
tales seemed always asking his readers if they 
would accompany him on those strange jour¬ 
neys which he took through the uncertain ways 
of the human soul. 

The book had no author’s name, and it 
appears to have made no impression on the 
public. Hawthorne had been three years out 
of college, and this was his first venture. It 
had, as is so often the case, the marks of that 
period of imaginative activity which falls to a 
young collegian. Too little familiar with the 
great world to move with ease in its ways, the 
student recurs to his college world, and makes 
that the scene of his fancied adventures, and 
yet instinctively perceives that the items which 
make up the incidents of a student’s life are 
foreign from the purposes of romance. 

Hawthorne quickly recognized the futility of 
ix 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


his story, and when it failed, as it did almost 
from the beginning, he made an effort to call in 
all the copies that were within reach and to de¬ 
stroy them. He made his sister and his most 
intimate friend give up their copies to be burned, 
and he never referred to the misadventure. A 
dozen years after his death a copy was found by 
his family and reissued. 

Of the other tales and sketches in this vol¬ 
ume little needs to be said. ‘‘The Antique 
Ring,” “An Old Woman’s Tale,” and “Alice 
Doane’s Appeal ” are from the earlier River¬ 
side Edition^ having been collected from the pe¬ 
riodicals in which they first appeared. “ The 
Ghost of Doctor Harris ” was first printed in 
The Nineteenth Century for January, 1900, hav¬ 
ing been furnished to A. M. Wilberforce by a 
sister of Mrs. John Pemberton Heywood, for 
whom Hawthorne wrote it out, when he was a 
guest at her house in Liverpool during the 
period ^of his consulate. 

Hawthorne himself, in making up his ear¬ 
lier collections of short tales and sketches, drew 
upon the various magazines and annuals to 
which he first contributed them. After his 
death a few others were added, and the field was 
carefully gleaned. Still, there remained some 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

pieces which Hawthorne was disinclined to pre¬ 
serve, as he has himself said; and so far as regards 
an addition to his fame or even to the pleasure 
to be given to his readers, they might well be 
left in neglect. But there is a third considera¬ 
tion which cannot wholly be overlooked. Haw¬ 
thorne's genius has become so fully recognized 
that the student of literature, and of his special 
contribution, is eager to trace his characteristics 
and his growth if possible; for this end even 
his discarded work has its value. Failures, as 
well as successes, belong in the make-up of a 
great writer; and in view of this aspect it has 
been thought best to print in an appendix five 
stories which may be looked upon by the cu¬ 
rious as possibly throwing light upon Haw¬ 
thorne's art. It must be premised that neither 
Hawthorne's name nor one of his noms de plume 
is attached to any one of these pieces. But 
this is true also of others which are indubitably 
his, since he included them in his collections. 
The reader is quite at liberty, therefore, to reject 
any or all of the five. The editor can simply 
say that, after carefully reading a considerable 
number of stories supposed to be Hawthorne's, 
he is disposed to accept these as having strong 
internal evidence of authenticity. 

‘‘The Young Provincial" is from the Token 
of 1830; “The Haunted Quack" and “The 
xi 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

New England Village ” from the Token of 1831; 
“My Wife’s Novel ” from the Token of 1832 ; 
and “The Bald Eagle” from the Token of 
1833. 

xii 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


FANSHAWE 

CHAPTER I 


“ Our court shall be a little Academe.” — Shakespeare. 

I N an ancient though not very populous set¬ 
tlement, in a retired corner of one of the 
New England States, arise the walls of a 
seminary of learning, which, for the convenience 
of a name, shall be entitled ‘‘ Harley College.** 
This institution, though the number of its years 
is inconsiderable compared with the hoar anti¬ 
quity of its European sisters, is not without 
some claims to reverence on the score of age ; 
for an almost countless multitude of rivals, by 
many of which its reputation has been eclipsed, 
have sprung up since its foundation. At no 
time, indeed, during an existence of nearly a cen¬ 
tury, has it acquired a very extensive fame ; and 
circumstances, which need not be particularized, 
have, of late years, involved it in a deeper ob¬ 
scurity. There are now few candidates for the 
degrees that the college is authorized to bestow. 
On two of its annual Commencement Days,** 

I 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


there has been a total deficiency of baccalaure¬ 
ates ; and the lawyers and divines, on whom 
doctorates in their respective professions are gra¬ 
tuitously inflicted, are not accustomed to con¬ 
sider the distinction as an honor. Yet the sons 
of this seminary have always maintained their 
full share of reputation, in whatever paths of 
life they trod. Few of them, perhaps, have 
been deep and finished scholars; but the col¬ 
lege has supplied — what the emergencies of 
the country demanded — a set of men more 
useful in its present state, and whose deficiency 
in theoretical knowledge has not been found to 
imply a want of practical ability. 

The local situation of the college, so far se¬ 
cluded from the sight and sound of the busy 
world, is peculiarly favorable to the moral, if 
not to the literary, habits of its students ; and 
this advantage probably caused the founders to 
overlook the inconveniences that were insepa¬ 
rably connected with it. The humble edifices 
rear themselves almost at the farthest extremity 
of a narrow vale, which, winding through a long 
extent of hill country, is well-nigh as inaccessi¬ 
ble, except at one point, as the Happy Valley 
of Abyssinia. A stream, that farther on be¬ 
comes a considerable river, takes its rise at a 
short distance above the college, and affords, 
along its wood-fringed banks, many shady re¬ 
treats, where even study is pleasant, and idleness 
2 


FANSHAWE 


delicious. The neighborhood of the institution 
is not quite a solitude, though the few habita¬ 
tions scarcely constitute a village. These con¬ 
sist principally of farmhouses, of rather an an¬ 
cient date (for the settlement is much older than 
the college), and of a little inn, which even in 
that secluded spot does not fail of a moderate 
support. Other dwellings are scattered up and 
down the valley ; but the difficulties of the soil 
will long avert the evils of a too dense popula¬ 
tion. The character of the inhabitants does not 
seem — as there was, perhaps, room to antici¬ 
pate — to be in any degree influenced by the 
atmosphere of Harley College. They are a set 
of rough and hardy yeomen, much inferior, as 
respects refinement, to the corresponding classes 
in most other parts of our country. This is 
the more remarkable, as there is scarcely a fam¬ 
ily in the vicinity that has not provided, for at 
least one of its sons, the advantages of a ‘‘ liberal 
education.’' 

Having thus described the present state of 
Harley College, we must proceed to speak of 
it as it existed about eighty years since, when 
its foundation was recent and its prospects flat¬ 
tering. At the head of the institution, at this 
period, was a learned and Orthodox divine, 
whose fame was in all the churches. He was 
the author of several works which evinced much 
erudition and depth of research; and the pub- 
3 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


lie, perhaps, thought the more highly of his 
abilities from a singularity in the purposes to 
which he applied them, that added much to the 
curiosity of his labors, though little to their use¬ 
fulness. But, however fanciful might be his 
private pursuits. Dr. Melmoth, it was univer¬ 
sally allowed, was diligent and successful in the 
arts of instruction. The young men of his 
charge prospered beneath his eye, and regarded 
him with an affection that was strengthened by 
the little foibles which occasionally excited their 
ridicule. The president was assisted in the dis¬ 
charge of his duties by two inferior officers, 
chosen from the alumni of the college, who, 
while they imparted to others the knowledge 
they had already imbibed, pursued the study 
of divinity under the direction of their princi¬ 
pal. Under such auspices the institution grew 
and flourished. Having at that time but two 
rivals in the country (neither of them within 
a considerable distance), it became the general 
resort of the youth of the Province in which it 
was situated. For several years in succession, 
its students amounted to nearly fifty, — a num¬ 
ber which, relatively to the circumstances of the 
country, was very considerable. 

From the exterior of the collegians, an accu¬ 
rate observer might pretty safely judge how long 
they had been inmates of those classic walls. 
The brown cheeks and the rustic dress of some 
4 


FANSHAWE 


would inform him that they had but recently 
left the plough to labor in a not less toilsome 
field ; the grave look, and the intermingling of 
garments of a more classic cut, would distin¬ 
guish those who had begun to acquire the polish 
of their new residence ; and the air of superi¬ 
ority, the paler cheek, the less robust form, the 
spectacles of green, and the dress, in general of 
threadbare black, would designate the highest 
class, who were understood to have acquired 
nearly all the science their Alma Mater could 
bestow, and to be on the point of assuming their 
stations in the world. There were, it is true, 
exceptions to this general description. A few 
young men had found their way hither from the 
distant seaports ; and these were the models of 
fashion to their rustic companions, over whom 
they asserted a superiority in exterior accom¬ 
plishments, which the fresh though unpolished 
intellect of the sons of the forest denied them in 
their literary competitions. A third class, differ¬ 
ing widely from both the former, consisted of 
a few young descendants of the aborigines, to 
whom an impracticable philanthropy was en¬ 
deavoring to impart the benefits of civilization. 

If this institution did not offer all the advan¬ 
tages of elder and prouder seminaries, its defi¬ 
ciencies were compensated to its students by the 
inculcation of regular habits, and of a deep and 
awful sense of religion, which seldom deserted 
5 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


them in their course through life. The mild 
and gentle rule of Dr. Melmoth, like that of a 
father over his children, was more destructive to 
vice than a sterner sway ; and though youth is 
never without its follies, they have seldom been 
more harmless than they were here. The stu¬ 
dents, indeed, ignorant of their own bliss, some¬ 
times wished to hasten the time of their entrance 
on the business of life; but they found, in after 
years, that many of their happiest remembrances, 
many of the scenes which they would with least 
reluctance live over again, referred to the seat 
of their early studies. The exceptions to this 
remark were chiefly those whose vices had drawn 
down, even from that paternal government, a 
weighty retribution. 

Dr. Melmoth, at the time when he is to be 
introduced to the reader, had borne the mat¬ 
rimonial yoke (and in his case it was no light 
burden) nearly twenty years. The blessing of 
children, however, had been denied him, — a 
circumstance which he was accustomed to con¬ 
sider as one of the sorest trials that checkered 
his pathway; for he was a man of a kind and 
affectionate heart, that was continually seeking 
objects to rest itself upon. He was inclined to 
believe, also, that a common offspring would 
have exerted a meliorating influence on the tem¬ 
per of Mrs. Melmoth, the character of whose 
domestic government often compelled him to 
6 


FANSHAWE 


call to mind such portions of the wisdom of an¬ 
tiquity as relate to the proper endurance of the 
shrewishness of woman. But domestic comforts, 
as well as comforts of every other kind, have 
their drawbacks; and, so long as the balance is 
on the side of happiness, a wise man will not 
murmur. Such was the opinion of Dr. Mel- 
moth; and with a little aid from philosophy, and 
more from religion, he journeyed on contentedly 
through life. When the storm was loud by the 
parlor hearth, he had always a sure and quiet re¬ 
treat in his study ; and there, in his deep though 
not always useful labors, he soon forgot what¬ 
ever of disagreeable nature pertained to his situ¬ 
ation. This small and dark apartment was the 
only portion of the house to which, since one 
firmly repelled invasion, Mrs. Melmoth's om¬ 
nipotence did not extend. Here (to reverse the 
words of Queen Elizabeth) there was “ but one 
master and no mistress ; and that man has lit¬ 
tle right to complain who possesses so much as 
one corner in the world where he may be happy 
or miserable, as best suits him. In his study, 
then, the doctor was accustomed to spend most 
of the hours that were unoccupied by the duties 
of his station. The flight of time was here as 
swift as the wind, and noiseless as the snow¬ 
flake ; and it was a sure proof of real happiness 
that night often came upon the student before 
he knew it was midday. 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Dr. Melmoth was wearing towards age (hav¬ 
ing lived nearly sixty years), when he was called 
upon to assume a character to which he had as 
yet been a stranger. He had possessed in his 
youth a very dear friend, with whom his educa¬ 
tion had associated him, and who in his early 
manhood had been his chief intimate. Circum¬ 
stances, however, had separated them for nearly 
thirty years, half of which had been spent by his 
friend, who was engaged in mercantile pursuits, 
in a foreign country. The doctor had, never¬ 
theless, retained a warm interest in the welfare 
of his old associate, though the different nature 
of their thoughts and occupations had prevented 
them from corresponding. After a silence of so 
long continuance, therefore, he was surprised by 
the receipt of a letter from his friend, contain¬ 
ing a request of a most unexpected nature. 

Mr. Langton had married rather late in life ; 
and his wedded bliss had been but of short con¬ 
tinuance. Certain misfortunes in trade, when 
he was a Benedict of three years* standing, had 
deprived him of a large portion of his property, 
and compelled him, in order to save the re¬ 
mainder, to leave his own country for what he 
hoped would be but a brief residence in another. 
But, though he was successful in the immediate 
objects of his voyage, circumstances occurred to 
lengthen his stay far beyond the period which 
he had assigned to it. It was difficult so to 


FANSHAWE 


arrange his extensive concerns that they could 
be safely trusted to the management of others; 
and, when this was effected, there was another 
not less powerful obstacle to his return. His 
affairs, under his own inspection, were so pros¬ 
perous, and his gains so considerable, that, in 
the words of the old ballad, ‘‘He set his heart 
to gather gold ; and to this absorbing passion 
he sacrificed his domestic happiness. The death 
of his wife, about four years after his departure, 
undoubtedly contributed to give him a sort of 
dread of returning, which it required a strong 
effort to overcome. The welfare of his only 
child he knew would be little affected by this 
event; for she was under the protection of his 
sister, of whose tenderness he was well assured. 
But, after a few more years, this sister, also, was 
taken away by death; and then the father felt 
that duty imperatively called upon him to re¬ 
turn. He realized, on a sudden, how much of 
life he had thrown away in the acquisition of 
what is only valuable as it contributes to the hap¬ 
piness of life, and how short a time was left him 
for life's true enjoyments. Still, however, his 
mercantile habits were too deeply seated to allow 
him to hazard his present prosperity by any 
hasty measures; nor was Mr. Langton, though 
capable of strong affections, naturally liable to 
manifest them violently. It was probable, there¬ 
fore, that many months might yet elapse before 
9 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


he would again tread the shores of his native 
country. 

But the distant relative in whose family, since 
the death of her aunt, Ellen Langton had re¬ 
mained had been long at variance with her 
father, and had unwillingly assumed the office 
of her protector. Mr. Langton's request, there¬ 
fore, to Dr. Melmoth was, that his ancient 
friend (one of the few friends that time had left 
him) would be as a father to his daughter till 
he could himself relieve him of the charge. 

The doctor, after perusing the epistle of his 
friend, lost no time in laying it before Mrs. Mel¬ 
moth, though this was, in truth, one of the very 
few occasions on which he had determined that 
his will should be absolute law. The lady was 
quick to perceive the firmness of his purpose, 
and would not (even had she been particularly 
averse to the proposed measure) hazard her usual 
authority by a fruitless opposition. But, by long 
disuse, she had lost the power of consenting gra¬ 
ciously to any wish of her husband’s. 

I see your heart is set upon this matter,” 
she observed ; “ and, in truth, I fear we cannot 
decently refuse Mr. Langton’s request. I see 
little good of such a friend, doctor, who never 
lets one know he is alive till he has a favor to 
ask.” 

Nay ; but I have received much good at his 
hand,” replied Dr. Melmoth; and, if he asked 
10 


FANSHAWE 


more of me, it should be done with a willing 
heart. I remember in my youth, when my 
worldly goods were few and ill managed (I was 
a bachelor then, dearest Sarah, with none to 
look after my household), how many times I 
have been beholden to him. And see : in his 
letter he speaks of presents, of the produce of 
the country, which he has sent both to you and 
me,*’ 

If the girl were country-bred,” continued 
the lady, we might give her houseroom, and 
no harm done. Nay, she might even be a help 
to me ; for Esther, our maid servant, leaves us 
at the month’s end. But I warrant she knows 
as little of household matters as you do your¬ 
self, doctor.” 

“ My friend’s sister was well grounded in the 
re familiari^' answered her husband ; ‘‘ and 
doubtless she hath imparted somewhat of her 
skill to this damsel. Besides, the child is of ten¬ 
der years, and will profit much by your instruc¬ 
tion and mine.” 

‘‘The child is eighteen years of age, doctor,” 
observed Mrs. Melmoth, “ and she has cause 
to be thankful that she will have better instruc¬ 
tion than yours.” 

This was a proposition that Dr. Melmoth 
did not choose to dispute; though he perhaps 
thought that his long and successful experience 
in the education of the other sex might make 

II 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


him an able coadjutor to his wife in the care of 
Ellen Langton. He determined to journey in 
person to the seaport where his young charge 
resided, leaving the concerns of Harley College 
to the direction of the two tutors. Mrs. Mel- 
moth, who, indeed, anticipated with pleasure the 
arrival of a new subject to her authority, threw 
no difficulties in the way of his intention. To 
do her justice, her preparations for his journey 
and the minute instructions with which she fa¬ 
vored him were such as only a woman’s true 
affection could have suggested. The traveller 
met with no incidents important to this tale ; 
and, after an absence of about a fortnight, he 
and Ellen Langton alighted from their steeds 
(for on horseback had the journey been per¬ 
formed) in safety at his own door. 

If pen could give an adequate idea of Ellen 
Langton’s loveliness, it would achieve what pen¬ 
cil (the pencils, at least, of the colonial artists 
who attempted it) never could ; for, though the 
dark eyes might be painted, the pure and plea¬ 
sant thoughts that peeped through them could 
only be seen and felt. But descriptions of beauty 
are never satisfactory. It must, therefore, be 
left to the imagination of the reader to conceive 
of something not more than mortal, nor, indeed, 
quite the perfection of mortality, but charming 
men the more, because they felt, that, lovely as 
she was, she was of like nature to themselves. 

12 


FANSHAWE 


From the time that Ellen entered Dr. Mel- 
moth’s habitation, the sunny days seemed 
brighter, and the cloudy ones less gloomy, than 
he had ever before known them. He naturally 
delighted in children ; and Ellen, though her 
years approached to womanhood, had yet much 
of the gayety and simple happiness, because the 
innocence, of a child. She consequently became 
the very blessing of his life, — the rich recrea¬ 
tion that he promised himself for hours of lit¬ 
erary toil. On one occasion, indeed, he even 
made her his companion in the sacred retreat of 
his study, with the purpose of entering upon a 
course of instruction in the learned languages. 
This measure, however, he found inexpedient 
to repeat; for Ellen, having discovered an old 
romance among his heavy folios, contrived, by 
the charm of her sweet voice, to engage his at¬ 
tention therein till all more important concerns 
were forgotten. 

With Mrs. Melmoth Ellen was not, of 
course, so great a favorite as with her husband ; 
for women cannot, so readily as men, bestow 
upon the offspring of others those affections 
that nature intended for their own; and the 
doctor’s extraordinary partiality was anything 
rather than a pledge of his wife’s. But Ellen 
differed so far from the idea she had previously 
formed of her, as a daughter of one of the prin¬ 
cipal merchants, who were then, as now, like 

13 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


nobles in the land, that the stock of dislike 
which Mrs. Melmoth had provided was found 
to be totally inapplicable. The young stranger 
strove so hard, too (and undoubtedly it was a 
pleasant labor), to win her love, that she was 
successful to a degree of which the lady herself 
was not, perhaps, aware. It was soon seen that 
her education had not been neglected in those 
points which Mrs. Melmoth deemed most im¬ 
portant. The nicer departments of cookery, 
after sufficient proof of her skill, were commit¬ 
ted to her care ; and the doctor's table was now 
covered with delicacies, simple indeed, but as 
tempting on account of their intrinsic excellence 
as of the small white hands that made them. By 
such arts as these, — which in her were no arts, 
but the dictates of an affectionate disposition, — 
by making herself useful where it was possible, 
and agreeable on all occasions, Ellen gained the 
love of every one within the sphere of her influ¬ 
ence. 

But the maiden's conquests were not con¬ 
fined to the members of Dr. Melmoth's family. 
She had numerous admirers among those whose 
situation compelled them to stand afar off, and 
gaze upon her loveliness, as if she were a star, 
whose brightness they saw, but whose warmth 
they could not feel. These were the young men 
of Harley College, whose chief opportunities of 
beholding Ellen were upon the Sabbaths, when 


FANSHAWE 


she worshipped with them in the little chapel, 
which served the purposes of a church to all the 
families of the vicinity. There was, about this 
period (and the fact was undoubtedly attributa¬ 
ble to Ellen's influence), a general and very evi¬ 
dent decline in the scholarship of the college, 
especially in regard to the severer studies. The 
intellectual powers of the young men seemed to 
be directed chiefly to the construction of Latin 
and Greek verse, many copies of which, with a 
characteristic and classic gallantry, were strewn 
in the path where Ellen Langton was accustomed 
to walk. They, however, produced no percep¬ 
tible effect; nor were the aspirations of another 
ambitious youth, who celebrated her perfections 
in Hebrew, attended with their merited success. 

But there was one young man, to whom cir¬ 
cumstances, independent of his personal advan¬ 
tages, afforded a superior opportunity of gain¬ 
ing Ellen's favor. He was nearly related to 
Dr. Melmoth, on which account he received his 
education at Harley College, rather than at one 
of the English universities, to the expenses of 
which his fortune would have been adequate. 
This connection entitled him to a frequent and 
familiar access to the domestic hearth of the 
dignitary, — an advantage of which, since El¬ 
len Langton became a member of the family, 
he very constantly availed himself. 

Edward Walcott was certainly much superior, 

15 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


In most of the particulars of which a lady takes 
cognizance, to those of his fellow students who 
had come under Ellen's notice. He was tall; 
and the natural grace of his manners had been 
improved (an advantage which few of his asso¬ 
ciates could boast) by early intercourse with pol¬ 
ished society. His features, also, were hand¬ 
some, and promised to be manly and dignified 
when they should cease to be youthful. His 
character as a scholar was more than respectable, 
though many youthful follies, sometimes, per¬ 
haps, approaching near to vices, were laid to his 
charge. But his occasional derelictions from 
discipline were not such as to create any very 
serious apprehensions respecting his future wel¬ 
fare ; nor were they greater than, perhaps, might 
be expected from a young man who possessed a 
considerable command of money, and who was, 
besides, the fine gentleman of the little com¬ 
munity of which he was a member, — a charac¬ 
ter which generally leads its possessor into fol¬ 
lies that he would otherwise have avoided. 

With this youth Ellen Langton became fa¬ 
miliar, and even intimate; for he was her only 
companion, of an age suited to her own, and the 
difference of sex did not occur to her as an ob¬ 
jection. He was her constant companion on 
all necessary and allowable occasions, and drew 
upon himself, in consequence, the envy of the 
college. 

i6 


CHAPTER II 


“Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain, 

Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain ; 

As painfully to pore upon a book 

To seek the light of truth, while truth, the while, 
Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.” 

Shakespeare. 


O N one of the afternoons which afforded 
to the students a relaxation from their 
usual labors, Ellen was attended by her 
cavalier in a little excursion over the rough 
bridle roads that led from her new residence. 
She was an experienced equestrian, — a neces¬ 
sary accomplishment at that period, when vehi¬ 
cles of every kind were rare. It was now the 
latter end of spring; but the season had hitherto 
been backward, with only a few warm and plea¬ 
sant days. The present afternoon, however, was a 
delicious mingling of spring and summer, form¬ 
ing in their union an atmosphere so mild and 
pure, that to breathe was almost a positive hap¬ 
piness. There was a little alternation of cloud 
across the brow of heaven, but only so much as 
to render the sunshine more delightful. 

The path of the young travellers lay some¬ 
times among tall and thick-standing trees, and 
sometimes over naked and desolate hills, whence 

17 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


man had taken the natural vegetation, and then 
left the soil to its barrenness. Indeed, there is 
little inducement to a cultivator to labor among 
the huge stones which there peep forth from 
the earth, seeming to form a continued ledge for 
several miles. A singular contrast to this un¬ 
favored tract of country is seen in the narrow 
but luxuriant, though sometimes swampy, strip 
of interval, on both sides of the stream, that, as 
has been noticed, flows down the valley. The 
light and buoyant spirits of Edward Walcott and 
Ellen rose higher as they rode on; and their 
way was enlivened, wherever its roughness did 
not forbid, by their conversation and pleasant 
laughter. But at length Ellen drew her bridle, 
as they emerged from a thick portion of the for¬ 
est, just at the foot of a steep hill. 

“We must have ridden far,'* she observed, 
— “ farther than I thought. It will be near sun¬ 
set before we can reach home.” 

“ There are still several hours of daylight,” 
replied Edward Walcott; “ and we will not turn 
back without ascending this hill. The prospect 
from the summit is beautiful, and will be par¬ 
ticularly so now in this rich sunlight. Come, 
Ellen, — one light touch of the whip, — your 
pony is as fresh as when we started.” 

On reaching the summit of the hill, and look¬ 
ing back in the direction in which they had come, 
they could see the little stream, peeping forth 

i8 


FANSHAWE 


many times to the daylight, and then shrinking 
back into the shade. Farther on, it became 
broad and deep, though rendered incapable of 
navigation, in this part of its course, by the 
occasional interruption of rapids. 

There are hidden wonders of rock and pre¬ 
cipice and cave, in that dark forest,” said Ed¬ 
ward, pointing to the space between them and 
the river. If it were earlier in the day, I 
should love to lead you there. Shall we try the 
adventure now, Ellen ? ” 

“ O no ! ” she replied. Let us delay no 
longer. I fear I must even now abide a rebuke 
from Mrs. Melmoth, which I have surely de¬ 
served. But who is this, who rides on so slowly 
before us ? ” 

She pointed to a horseman, whom they had 
not before observed. He was descending the 
hill; but, as his steed seemed to have chosen 
his own pace, he made a very inconsiderable pro¬ 
gress. 

‘‘ O, do you not know him ? But it is 
scarcely possible you should,” exclaimed her 
companion. ‘‘We must do him the good office, 
Ellen, of stopping his progress, or he will find 
himself at the village, a dozen miles farther on, 
before he resumes his consciousness.” 

“ Has he then lost his senses ? ” inquired Miss 
Langton. 

“ Not so, Ellen, — if much learning has not 

19 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


made him mad,” replied Edward Walcott. He 
is a deep scholar and a noble fellow ; but I fear 
we shall follow him to his grave erelong. Dr. 
Melmoth has sent him to ride in pursuit of his 
health. He will never overtake it, however, 
at this pace.” 

As he spoke, they had approached close to 
the subject of their conversation ; and Ellen had 
a moment’s space for observation before he 
started from the abstraction in which he was 
plunged. The result of her scrutiny was favor¬ 
able, yet very painful. 

The stranger could scarcely have attained his 
twentieth year, and was possessed of a face and 
form such as Nature bestows on none but her 
favorites. There was a nobleness on his high 
forehead, which time would have deepened into 
majesty; and all his features were formed with 
a strength and boldness, of which the paleness, 
produced by study and confinement, could not 
deprive them. The expression of his counte¬ 
nance was not a melancholy one: on the con¬ 
trary, it was proud and high, perhaps triumphant, 
like one who was a ruler in a world of his own, 
and independent of the beings that surrounded 
him. But a blight, of which his thin pale cheek 
and the brightness of his eye were alike proofs, 
seemed to have come over him ere his matu¬ 
rity. 

The scholar’s attention was now aroused by 
20 


FANSHAWE 


the hoof-tramps at his side; and, starting, he 
fixed his eyes on Ellen, whose young and lovely 
countenance was full of the interest he had ex¬ 
cited. A deep blush immediately suffused his 
cheek, proving how well the glow of health 
would have become it. There was nothing awk¬ 
ward, however, in his manner; and, soon recov¬ 
ering his self-possession, he bowed to her, and 
would have ridden on. 

‘‘Your ride is unusually long to-day, Fan- 
shawe,” observed Edward Walcott. “ When 
may we look for your return ? ” 

The young man again blushed, but answered, 
with a smile that had a beautiful effect upon his 
countenance: “ I was not, at the moment, aware 
in which direction my horse's head was turned. 
I have to thank you for arresting me in a jour¬ 
ney which was likely to prove much longer than 
I intended." 

The party had now turned their horses, and 
were about to resume their ride in a homeward 
direction; but Edward perceived that Fanshawe, 
having lost the excitement of intense thought, 
now looked weary and dispirited. 

“ Here is a cottage close at hand," he ob¬ 
served. “We have ridden far, and stand in 
need of refreshment. Ellen, shall we alight? " 
She saw the benevolent motive of his propo¬ 
sal, and did not hesitate to comply with it. But, 
as they paused at the cottage door, she could 
21 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


not but observe that its exterior promised few 
of the comforts which they required. Time and 
neglect seemed to have conspired for its ruin; 
and, but for a thin curl of smoke from its clay 
chimney, they could not have believed it to be 
inhabited. A considerable tract of land in the 
vicinity of the cottage had evidently been, at 
some former period, under cultivation, but was 
now overrun by bushes and dwarf pines, among 
which many huge gray rocks, ineradicable by 
human art, endeavored to conceal themselves. 
About half an acre of ground was occupied by 
the young blades of Indian corn, at which a 
half-starved cow gazed wistfully over the moul¬ 
dering log fence. These were the only agricul¬ 
tural tokens. Edward Walcott, nevertheless, 
drew the latch of the cottage door, after knock¬ 
ing loudly but in vain. 

The apartment which was thus opened to 
their view was quite as wretched as its exterior 
had given them reason to anticipate. Poverty 
was there, with all its necessary and unnecessary 
concomitants. The intruders would have retired 
had not the hope of affording relief detained 
them. 

The occupants of the small and squalid apart¬ 
ment were two women, both of them elderly, 
and, from the resemblance of their features, 
appearing to be sisters. The expression of 
their countenances, however, was very different. 

22 


FANSHAWE 


One, evidently the younger, was seated on the 
farther side of* the large hearth, opposite to 
the door at which the party stood. She had the 
sallow look of long and wasting illness ; and 
there was an unsteadiness of expression about 
her eyes, that immediately struck the observer. 
Yet her face was mild and gentle, therein con¬ 
trasting widely with that of her companion. 

The other woman was bending over a small 
fire of decayed branches, the flame of which was 
very disproportionate to the smoke, scarcely 
producing heat sufficient for the preparation of 
a scanty portion of food. Her profile only was 
visible to the strangers, though, from a slight 
motion of her eye, they perceived that she was 
aware of their presence. Her features were 
pinched and spare, and wore a look of sullen 
discontent, for which the evident wretchedness 
of her situation afforded a sufficient reason. 
This female, notwithstanding her years and the 
habitual fretfulness (that is more wearing than 
time), was apparently healthy and robust, with 
a dry, leathery complexion. A short space 
elapsed before she thought proper to turn her 
face towards her visitors ; and she then regarded 
them with a lowering eye, without speaking, or 
rising from her chair. 

‘‘We entered,’' Edward Walcott began to 
say, “ in the hope ” — But he paused, on per¬ 
ceiving that the sick woman had risen from her 

23 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


seat, and with slow and tottering footsteps was 
drawing near to him. She took his hand in 
both her own ; and, though he shuddered at the 
touch of age and disease, he did not attempt to 
withdraw it. She then perused all his features, 
with an expression at first of eager and hope¬ 
ful anxiety, which faded by degrees into disap¬ 
pointment. Then, turning from him, she gazed 
into Fanshawe’s countenance with the like eager¬ 
ness, but with the same result. Lastly, totter¬ 
ing back to her chair, she hid her face and wept 
bitterly. The strangers, though they knew not 
the cause of her grief, were deeply affected ; and 
Ellen approached the mourner with words of 
comfort, which, more from their tone than their 
meaning, produced a transient effect. 

‘‘ Do you bring news of him ? ” she inquired, 
raising her head. “ Will he return to me ? 
Shall I see him before I die ? Ellen knew 
not what to answer ; and, ere she could attempt 
it, the other female prevented her. 

Sister Butler is wandering in her mind,*' 
she said, ‘^and speaks of one she will never 
behold again. The sight of strangers disturbs 
her, and you see we have nothing here to offer 
you.” 

The manner of the woman was ungracious, 
but her words were true. They saw that their 
presence could do nothing towards the allevia¬ 
tion of the misery they witnessed ; and they felt 

24 


FANSHAWE 


that mere curiosity would not authorize a longer 
intrusion. So soon, therefore, as they had re¬ 
lieved, according to their power, the poverty that 
seemed to be the least evil of this cottage, they 
emerged into the open air. 

The breath of heaven felt sweet to them, and 
removed a part of the weight from their young 
hearts, which were saddened by the sight of 
so much wretchedness. Perceiving a pure and 
bright little fountain at a short distance from the 
cottage, they approached it, and, using the bark 
of a birch-tree as a cup, partook of its cool 
waters. They then pursued their homeward 
ride with such diligence, that, just as the sun 
was setting, they came in sight of the humble 
wooden edifice which was dignified with the 
name of Harley College. A golden ray rested 
upon the spire of the little chapel, the bell of 
which sent its tinkling murmur down the valley 
to summon the wanderers to evening prayers. 

Fanshawe returned to his chamber that night, 
and lighted his lamp as he had been wont to do. 
The books were around him which had hitherto 
been to him like those fabled volumes of Magic, 
from which the reader could not turn away his 
eye till death were the consequence of his stud¬ 
ies. But there were unaccustomed thoughts in 
his bosom now ; and to these, leaning his head 
on one of the unopened volumes, he resigned 
himself. 


25 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


He called up in review the years, that, even 
at his early age, he had spent in solitary study, 
in conversation with the dead, while he had 
scorned to mingle with the living world, or to 
be actuated by any of its motives. He asked 
himself to what purpose was all this destructive 
labor, and where was the happiness of superior 
knowledge. He had climbed but a few steps 
of a ladder that reached to infinity: he had 
thrown away his life in discovering, that, after a 
thousand such lives, he should still know com¬ 
paratively nothing. He even looked forward 
with dread — though once the thought had been 
dear to him — to the eternity of improvement 
that lay before him. It seemed now a weary 
way, without a resting place and without a ter¬ 
mination ; and at that moment he would have 
preferred the dreamless sleep of the brutes that 
perish to man's proudest attribute, — of immor¬ 
tality. 

Fanshawe had hitherto deemed himself un¬ 
connected with the world, unconcerned in its 
feelings, and uninfluenced by it in any of his 
pursuits. In this respect he probably deceived 
himself. If his inmost heart could have been 
laid open, there would have been discovered 
that dream of undying fame, which, dream as it 
is, is more powerful than a thousand realities. 
But, at any rate, he had seemed, to others and 
to himself, a solitary being, upon whom the 
26 


FANSHAWE 


hopes and fears of ordinary men were ineffec¬ 
tual. 

But now he felt the first thrilling of one of 
the many ties, that, so long as we breathe the 
common air (and who shall say how much 
longer?), unite us to our kind. The sound of 
a soft, sweet voice, the glance of a gentle eye, 
had wrought a change upon him ; and in his 
ardent mind a few hours had done the work of 
many. Almost in spite of himself, the new sen¬ 
sation was inexpressibly delightful. The recol¬ 
lection of his ruined health, of his habits (so 
much at variance with those of the world), — 
all the difficulties that reason suggested were 
inadequate to check the exulting tide of hope 
and joy. 

27 


CHAPTER III 


And let the aspiring youth beware of love, — 
Of the smooth glance beware ; for ’t is too late 
When on his heart the torrent softness pours j 
Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame 


Dissolves in air away.” 


Thomson. 


FEW months passed over the heads of 



Ellen Langton and her admirers, un- 


* productive of events, that, separately, 
were of sufficient importance to be related. The 
summer was now drawing to a close; and Dr. 
Melmoth had received information that his 
friend’s arrangements were nearly completed, 
and that by the next home-bound ship he hoped 
to return to his native country. The arrival of 
that ship was daily expected. 

During the time that had elapsed since his 
first meeting with Ellen, there had been a change, 
yet not a very remarkable one, in Fanshawe’s 
habits. He was still the same solitary being, 
so far as regarded his own sex; and he still con¬ 
fined himself as sedulously to his chamber, ex¬ 
cept for one hour— the sunset hour — of every 
day. At that period, unless prevented by the 
inclemency of the weather, he was accustomed 
to tread a path that wound along the banks of 
the stream. He had discovered that this was 


28 


FANSHAWE 


the most frequent scene of Ellen's walks ; and 
this it was that drew him thither. 

Their intercourse was at first extremely slight, 
— a bow on the one side, a smile on the other, 
and a passing word from both ; and then the 
student hurried back to his solitude. But, in 
course of time, opportunities occurred for more 
extended conversation ; so that, at the period 
with which this chapter is concerned, Fanshawe 
was, almost as constantly as Edward Walcott 
himself, the companion of Ellen's walks. 

His passion had strengthened more than pro- 
portionably to the time that had elapsed since 
it was conceived ; but the first glow and excite¬ 
ment which attended it had now vanished. He 
had reasoned calmly with himself, and rendered 
evident to his own mind the almost utter hope¬ 
lessness of success. He had also made his re¬ 
solution strong, that he would not even endeavor 
to win Ellen's love, the result of which, for a 
thousand reasons, could not be happiness. Firm 
in this determination, and confident of his power 
to adhere to it; feeling, also, that time and ab¬ 
sence could not cure his own passion, and having 
no desire for such a cure, — he saw no reason 
for breaking off the intercourse that was estab¬ 
lished between Ellen and himself. It was re¬ 
markable, that, notwithstanding the desperate 
nature of his love, that, or something connected 
with it, seemed to have a beneficial effect upon 
29 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


his health. There was now a slight tinge of 
color in his cheek, and a less consuming bright¬ 
ness in his eye. Could it be that hope, unknown 
to himself, was yet alive in his breast; that a 
sense of the possibility of earthly happiness was 
redeeming him from the grave ? 

Had the character of Ellen Langton’s mind 
been different, there might, perhaps, have been 
danger to her from an intercourse of this nature 
with such a being as Fanshawe ; for he was dis¬ 
tinguished by many of those asperities around 
which a woman’s affection will often cling. But 
she was formed to walk in the calm and quiet 
paths of life, and to pluck the flowers of happi¬ 
ness from the wayside where they grow. Sin¬ 
gularity of character, therefore, was not calcu¬ 
lated to win her love. She undoubtedly felt an 
interest in the solitary student, and perceiving, 
with no great exercise of vanity, that her society 
drew him from the destructive intensity of his 
studies, she perhaps felt it a duty to exert her 
influence. But it did not occur to her that her 
influence had been sufficiently strong to change 
the whole current of his thoughts and feel¬ 
ings. 

Ellen and her two lovers (for both, though 
perhaps not equally, deserved that epithet) had 
met, as usual, at the close of a sweet summer 
day, and were standing by the side of the stream, 
just where it swept into a deep pool. The cur- 

30 


FANSHAWE 


rent, undermining the bank, had formed a re¬ 
cess, which, according to Edward Walcott, af¬ 
forded at that moment a hiding place to a trout 
of noble size. 

‘‘ Now would I give the world,” he exclaimed 
with great interest, ‘‘ for a hook and line, a fish 
spear, or any piscatorial instrument of death! 
Look, Ellen, you can see the waving of his tail 
from beneath the bank! ” 

If you had the means of taking him, I 
should save him from your cruelty, thus,” said 
Ellen, dropping a pebble into the water, just 
over the fish. “ There! he has darted down 
the stream. How many pleasant caves and re¬ 
cesses there must be under these banks, where 
he may be happy! May there not be happi¬ 
ness in the life of a fish ? ” she added, turning 
with a smile to Fanshawe. 

“ There may,” he replied, so long as he lives 
quietly in the caves and recesses of which you 
speak. Yes, there may be happiness, though 
such as few would envy ; but, then, the hook 
and line ” — 

Which, there is reason to apprehend, will 
shortly destroy the happiness of our friend the 
trout,” interrupted Edward, pointing down the 
stream. “ There is an angler on his way toward 
us, who will intercept him.” 

“ He seems to care little for the sport, to judge 
by the pace at which he walks,” said Ellen. 

31 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


But he sees, now, that we are observing him, 
and is willing to prove that he knows something 
of the art,’’ replied Edward Walcott. ‘‘ I should 
think him well acquainted with the stream ; for, 
hastily as he walks, he has tried every pool and 
ripple where a fish usually hides. But that point 
will be decided when he reaches yonder old bare 
oak-tree.” 

And how is the old tree to decide the ques¬ 
tion ? ” inquired Fanshawe. It'is a species of 
evidence of which I have never before heard.” 

‘‘The stream has worn a hollow under its 
roots,” answered Edward, — “a most delicate 
retreat for a trout. Now, a stranger would not 
discover the spot; or, if he did, the probable re¬ 
sult of a cast would be the loss of hook and line, 
— an accident that has occurred to me more 
than once. If, therefore, this angler takes a 
fish from thence, it follows that he knows the 
stream.” 

They observed the fisher, accordingly, as he 
kept his way up the bank. He did not pause 
when he reached the old leafless oak, that formed 
with its roots an obstruction very common in 
American streams; but, throwing his line with 
involuntary skill as he passed, he not only es¬ 
caped the various entanglements, but drew forth 
a fine large fish. 

“ There, Ellen, he has captivated your pro- 
tegiy the trout, or, at least, one very like him in 

32 


FANSHAWE 


size,” observed Edward. “It is singular,” he 
added, gazing earnestly at the man. 

“ Why is it singular? ” inquired Ellen Lang- 
ton. “This person, perhaps, resides in the 
neighborhood, and may have fished often in 
the stream.” 

“ Do but look at him, Ellen, and judge 
whether his life can have been spent in this 
lonely valley,” he replied. “ The glow of many 
a hotter sun than ours has darkened his brow; 
and his step and air have something foreign in 
them, like what we see in sailors who have lived 
more in other countries than in their own. Is 
it not so, Ellen ? for your education in a seaport 
must have given you skill in these matters. But 
come, let us approach nearer.” 

They walked towards the angler, accordingly, 
who still remained under the oak, apparently 
engaged in arranging his fishing tackle. As the 
party drew nigh, he raised his head, and threw 
one quick, scrutinizing glance towards them, dis¬ 
closing, on his part, a set of bold and rather 
coarse features, weather-beaten, but indicating 
the age of the owner to be not above thirty. In 
person he surpassed the middle size, was well 
set, and evidently strong and active. 

“ Do you meet with much success, sir ? ” in¬ 
quired Edward Walcott, when within a conven¬ 
ient distance for conversation. 

“ I have taken but one fish,” replied the an- 

33 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


gler, in an accent which his hearers could scarcely 
determine to be foreign, or the contrary. ‘‘ I 
am a stranger to the stream, and have doubtless 
passed over many a likely place for sport.” 

“ You have an angler's eye, sir,” rejoined Ed¬ 
ward. ‘‘ I observed that you made your casts 
as if you had often trod these banks, and I 
could scarcely have guided you better myself.” 

“ Yes, I have learned the art, and I love to 
practise it,” replied the man. But will not the 
young lady try her skill ? ” he continued, cast¬ 
ing a bold eye on Ellen. “ The fish will love 
to be drawn out by such white hands as those.” 

Ellen shrank back, though almost impercepti¬ 
bly, from the free bearing of the man. It seemed 
meant for courtesy; but its effect was exces¬ 
sively disagreeable. Edward Walcott, who per¬ 
ceived and coincided in Ellen's feelings, replied 
to the stranger's proposal. 

The young lady will not put the gallantry 
of the fish to the proof, sir,” he said, “ and she 
will therefore have no occasion for your own*” 
I shall take leave to hear my answer from 
the young lady's own mouth,” answered the 
stranger haughtily. “If you will step this way. 
Miss Langton ” (here he interrupted himself), 
— “ if you will cast the line by yonder sunken 
log, I think you will meet with success.” 

Thus saying, the angler offered his rod and 
line to Ellen. She at first drew back, then hesi- 
34 


FANSHAWE 


tated, but finally held out her hand to receive 
them. In thus complying with the stranger’s 
request, she was actuated by a desire to keep 
the peace, which, as her notice of Edward Wal¬ 
cott’s crimsoned cheek and flashing eye assured 
her, was considerably endangered. The angler 
led the way to the spot which he had pointed 
out, which, though not at such a distance from 
Ellen’s companions but that words in a common 
tone could be distinguished, was out of the range 
of a lowered voice. 

Edward Walcott and the student remained 
by the oak : the former biting his lip with vex¬ 
ation ; the latter, whose abstraction always van¬ 
ished where Ellen was concerned, regarding her 
and the stranger with fixed and silent attention. 
The young men could at first hear the words 
that the angler addressed to Ellen. They re¬ 
lated to the mode of managing the rod; and 
she made one or two casts under his direction. 
At length, however, as if to offer his assistance, 
the man advanced close to her side, and seemed 
to speak, but in so low a tone that the sense 
of what he uttered was lost before it reached 
the oak. But its effect upon Ellen was imme¬ 
diate and very obvious. Her eyes flashed ; and 
an indignant blush rose high on her cheek, giv¬ 
ing to her beauty a haughty brightness, of which 
the gentleness of her disposition in general 
deprived it. The next moment, however, she 
35 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


seemed to recollect herself, and, restoring the an¬ 
gling rod to its owner, she turned away calmly, 
and approached her companions. 

‘‘ The evening breeze grows chill; and mine 
is a dress for a summer day,” she observed. 

Let us walk homeward.” 

‘‘ Miss Langton, is it the evening breeze 
alone that sends you homeward ? ” inquired 
Edward. 

At this moment the angler, who had resumed, 
and seemed to be intent upon his occupation, 
drew a fish from the pool, which he had pointed 
out to Ellen. 

“ I told the young lady,” he exclaimed, ‘^that, 
if she would listen to me a moment longer, she 
would be repaid for her trouble; and here is 
the proof of my words ! ” 

“ Come, let us hasten towards home ! ” cried 
Ellen eagerly; and she took Edward Walcott’s 
arm, with a freedom that, at another time, 
would have enchanted him. He at first seemed 
inclined to resist her wishes, but complied, after 
exchanging, unperceived by Ellen, a glance with 
the stranger, the meaning of which the latter ap¬ 
peared perfectly to understand. Fanshawe also 
attended her. Their walk towards Dr. Mel- 
moth’s dwelling was almost a silent one; and 
the few words that passed between them did 
not relate to the adventure which occupied the 

36 


FANSHAWE 


thoughts of each. On arriving at the house, 
Ellen’s attendants took leave of her, and retired. 

Edward Walcott, eluding Fanshawe’s obser¬ 
vation with little difficulty, hastened back to the 
old oak-tree. From the intelligence with which 
the stranger had received his meaning glance, 
the young man had supposed that he would 
here await his return. But the banks of the 
stream, upward and downward, so far as his 
eye could reach, were solitary. He could see 
only his own image in the water, where it swept 
into a silent depth; and could hear only its 
ripple, where stones and sunken trees impeded 
its course. The object of his search might, in¬ 
deed, have found concealment among the tufts 
of alders, or in the forest that was near at hand ; 
but thither it was in vain to pursue him. The 
angler had apparently set little store by the 
fruits of his assumed occupation; for the last 
fish that he had taken lay, yet alive, on the 
bank, gasping for the element to which Edward 
was sufficiently compassionate to restore him. 
After watching him as he glided down the 
stream, making feeble efforts to resist its cur¬ 
rent, the youth turned away, and sauntered 
slowly towards the college. 

Ellen Langton, on her return from her walk, 
found Dr. Melmoth’s little parlor unoccupied; 
that gentleman being deeply engaged in his 
37 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

study, and his lady busied in her domestic af¬ 
fairs. The evening, notwithstanding Ellen's 
remark concerning the chillness of the breeze, 
was almost sultry, and the windows of the apart¬ 
ment were thrown open. At one of these, which 
looked into the garden, she seated herself, lis¬ 
tening, almost unconsciously, to the monoto¬ 
nous music of a thousand insects, varied occa¬ 
sionally by the voice of a whippoorwill, who, as 
the day departed, was just commencing his song. 
A dusky tint, as yet almost imperceptible, was 
beginning to settle on the surrounding objects, 
except where they were opposed to the purple 
and golden clouds, which the vanished sun had 
made the brief inheritors of a portion of his 
brightness. In these gorgeous vapors, Ellen's 
fancy, in the interval of other thoughts, pictured 
a fairyland, and longed for wings to visit it. 

But as the clouds lost their brilliancy, and 
assumed first a dull purple, and then a sullen 
gray tint, Ellen's thoughts recurred to the ad¬ 
venture of the angler, which her imagination was 
inclined to invest with an undue singularity. It 
was, however, sufficiently unaccountable that an 
entire stranger should venture to demand of her 
a private audience ; and she assigned, in turn, a 
thousand motives for such a request, none of 
which were in any degree satisfactory. Her 
most prevailing thought, though she could not 
justify it to her reason, inclined her to believe 

38 


FANSHAWE 


that the angler was a messenger from her father. 
But wherefore he should deem it necessary to 
communicate any intelligence that he might 
possess only by means of a private interview, 
and without the knowledge of her friends, was 
a mystery she could not solve. In this view of 
the matter, however, she half regretted that her 
instinctive delicacy had impelled her so sud¬ 
denly to break off their conference, admitting, 
in the secrecy of her own mind, that, if an op¬ 
portunity were again to occur, it might not again 
be shunned. As if that unuttered thought had 
power to conjure up its object, she now became 
aware of a form standing in the garden, at a 
short distance from the window where she sat. 
The dusk had deepened, during Ellen's abstrac¬ 
tion, to such a degree, that the man's features 
were not perfectly distinguishable; but the 
maiden was not long in doubt of his identity, 
for he approached, and spoke in the same low 
tone in which he had addressed her when they 
stood by the stream. 

‘‘ Do you still refuse my request, when its 
object is but your own good, and that of one 
who should be most dear to you ?" he asked. 

Ellen's first impulse had been to cry out for 
assistance; her second was to fly: but, reject¬ 
ing both these measures, she determined to re¬ 
main, endeavoring to persuade herself that she 
was safe. The quivering of her voice, however, 
39 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


when she attempted to reply, betrayed her ap¬ 
prehensions. 

“ I cannot listen to such a request from a 
stranger,’* she said. “If you bring news from 
— from my father, why is it not told to Dr. 
Melmoth ? ” 

“ Because what I have to say is for your ear 
alone,” was the reply ; “ and if you would avoid 
misfortune now, and sorrow hereafter, you will 
not refuse to hear me.” 

“ And does it concern my father ? ” asked 
Ellen eagerly. 

“It does — most deeply,” answered the 
stranger. 

She meditated a moment, and then replied, 
“ I will not refuse, I will hear — but speak 
quickly.” 

“We are in danger of interruption in this 
place, and that would be fatal to my errand,” 
said the stranger. “ I will await you in the 
garden.” 

With these words, and giving her no oppor¬ 
tunity for reply, he drew back, and his form 
faded from her eyes. This precipitate retreat 
from argument was the most probable method 
that he could have adopted of gaining his end. 
He had awakened the strongest interest in El¬ 
len’s mind ; and he calculated justly in suppos¬ 
ing that she would consent to an interview upon 
his own terms. 


40 


FANSHAWE 


Dr. Melmoth had followed his own fancies 
in the mode of laying out his garden ; and, in 
consequence, the plan that had undoubtedly ex¬ 
isted in his mind was utterly incomprehensible 
to every one but himself. It was an intermix¬ 
ture of kitchen and flower garden, a labyrinth 
of winding paths, bordered by hedges, and im¬ 
peded by shrubbery. Many of the original 
trees of the forest were still flourishing among 
the exotics which the doctor had transplanted 
thither. It was not without a sensation of fear, 
stronger than she had ever before experienced, 
that Ellen Langton found herself in this artifi¬ 
cial wilderness, and in the presence of the mys¬ 
terious stranger. The dusky light deepened 
the lines of his dark, strong features ; and Ellen 
fancied that his countenance wore a wilder and 
a fiercer look than when she had met him by 
the stream. He perceived her agitation, and 
addressed her in the softest tones of which his 
voice was capable. 

“ Compose yourself,*’ he said; you have 
nothing to fear from me. But we are in open 
view from the house, where we now stand; and 
discovery would not be without danger to both 
of us.” 

‘^No eye can see us here,” said Ellen, trem¬ 
bling at the truth of her own observation, when 
they stood beneath a gnarled, low-branched pine, 
which Dr. Melmoth’s ideas of beauty had caused 

41 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


him to retain in his garden. “ Speak quickly; 
for I dare follow you no farther.” 

The spot was indeed sufficiently solitary, and 
the stranger delayed no longer to explain his 
errand. 

“Your father,” he began, — “do you not 
love him ? Would you do aught for his wel¬ 
fare ? ” 

“ Everything that a father could ask I would 
do!” exclaimed Ellen eagerly. “Where is my 
father, and when shall I meet him ? ” 

“It must depend upon yourself, whether you 
shall meet him in a few days or never.” 

“ Never 1 ” repeated Ellen. “ Is he ill ? Is 
he in danger ? ” 

“He is in danger,” replied the man, “ but 
not from illness. Your father is a ruined man. 
Of all his friends, but one remains to him. That 
friend has travelled far to prove if his daughter 
has a daughter’s affection.” 

“ And what is to be the proof? ” asked El¬ 
len, with more calmness than the stranger had 
anticipated; for she possessed a large fund of 
plain sense, which revolted against the mystery 
of these proceedings. Such a course, too, seemed 
discordant with her father’s character, whose 
strong mind and almost cold heart were little 
likely to demand, or even to pardon, the ro¬ 
mance of affection. 

“ This letter will explain,” was the reply to 
42 


FANSHAWE 


Ellen’s question. ‘‘ You will see that it is in 
your father’s hand ; and that may gain your 
confidence, though I am doubted.” 

She received the letter; and many of her 
suspicions of the stranger’s truth were van¬ 
quished by the apparent openness of his manner. 
He was preparing to speak further, but paused, 
for a footstep was now heard, approaching from 
the lower part of the garden. From their situ¬ 
ation, — at some distance from the path, and in 
the shade of the tree, — they had a fair chance 
of eluding discovery from any unsuspecting pas¬ 
senger ; and, when Ellen saw that the intruder 
was Fanshawe, she hoped that his usual ab¬ 
straction would assist their concealment. 

But, as the student advanced along the path, 
his air was not that of one whose deep inward 
thoughts withdrew his attention from all out¬ 
ward objects. He rather resembled the hunter, 
on the watch for his game; and, while he was 
yet at a distance from Ellen, a wandering gust 
of wind waved her white garment, and betrayed 
her. 

«It is as I feared,” said Fanshawe to himself. 
He then drew nigh, and addressed Ellen with 
a calm authority that became him well, notwith¬ 
standing that his years scarcely exceeded her 
own. “ Miss Langton,” he inquired, “ what 
do you here at such an hour, and with such a 
companion ? ” 


43 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Ellen was sufficiently displeased at what she 
deemed the unauthorized intrusion of Fanshawe 
in her affairs ; but his imposing manner and her 
own confusion prevented her from replying. 

‘‘ Permit me to lead you to the house/’ he 
continued, in the words of a request, but in the 
tone of a command. The dew hangs dank and 
heavy on these branches; and a longer stay 
would be more dangerous than you are aware.’* 

Ellen would fain have resisted; but though 
the tears hung as heavy on her eyelashes, be¬ 
tween shame and anger, as the dew upon the 
leaves, she felt compelled to accept the arm that 
he offered her. But the stranger, who, since 
Fanshawe’s approach, had remained a little 
apart, now advanced. 

‘‘ You speak as one in authority, young man,” 
he said. ‘‘ Have you the means of compelling 
obedience ? Does your power extend to men ? 
Or do you rule only over simple girls ? Miss 
Langton is under my protection, and, till you 
can bend me to your will, she shall remain so.” 

Fanshawe turned calmly, and fixed his eyes 
on the stranger. ‘‘ Retire, sir,” was all he said. 

Ellen almost shuddered, as if there were a 
mysterious and unearthly power in Fanshawe’s 
voice; for she saw that the stranger endeavored 
in vain, borne down by the influence of a supe¬ 
rior mind, to maintain the boldness of look and 
bearing that seemed natural to him. He at first 
44 


FANSHAWE 


made a step forward, then muttered a few half- 
audible words; but, quailing at length beneath 
the young man’s bright and steady eye, he 
turned and slowly withdrew. 

Fanshawe remained silent a moment after his 
opponent had departed; and, when he next 
spoke, it was in a tone of depression. Ellen 
observed, also, that his countenance had lost its 
look of pride and authority, and he seemed faint 
and exhausted. The occasion that called forth 
his energies had passed, and they had left him. 

Forgive me. Miss Langton,” he said al¬ 
most humbly, ^^if my eagerness to serve you 
has led me too far. There is evil in this stran¬ 
ger, — more than your pure mind can conceive. 
I know not what has been his errand; but let 
me entreat you to put confidence in those to 
whose care your father has intrusted you. Or 
if I — or — or Edward Walcott — But I have 
no right to advise you, and your own calm 
thoughts will guide you best.” 

He said no more ; and, as Ellen did not re¬ 
ply, they reached the house, and parted in si¬ 
lence. 


45 


CHAPTER IV 


The seeds by nature planted 
Take a deep root in the soil, and though for a time 
The trenchant share and tearing harrow may 
Sweep all appearance of them from the surface, 

Yet with the first warm rains of spring they ’ll shoot. 

And with their rankness smother the good grain. 

Heaven grant, it may n’t be so with him.” 

Riches. 

T he scene of this tale must now be 
changed to the little inn, which at that 
period, as at the present, was situated 
in the vicinity of Harley College. The site of 
the modern establishment is the same with that 
of the ancient; but everything of the latter that 
had been built by hands has gone to decay and 
been removed, and only the earth beneath and 
around it remains the same. The modern build¬ 
ing, a house of two stories, after a lapse of twenty 
years, is yet unfinished. On this account, it has 
retained the appellation of the New Inn,** 
though, like many who have frequented it, it has 
grown old ere its maturity. Its dingy whiteness 
and its apparent superfluity of windows (many 
of them being closed with rough boards) give 
it somewhat of a dreary look, especially in a wet 
day. 


46 


FANSHAWE 


The ancient inn was a house, of which the 
eaves approached within about seven feet of 
the ground ; while the roof, sloping gradually 
upward, formed an angle at several times that 
height. It was a comfortable and pleasant abode 
to the weary traveller, both in summer and win¬ 
ter; for the frost never ventured within the 
sphere of its huge hearths, and it was protected 
from the heat of the sultry season by three large 
elms that swept the roof with their long branches, 
and seemed to create a breeze where there was 
not one. The device upon the sign, suspended 
from one of these trees, was a hand holding a 
long-necked bottle, and was much more appro¬ 
priate than the present unmeaning representa¬ 
tion of a black eagle. But it is necessary to 
speak rather more at length of the landlord than 
of the house over which he presided. 

Hugh Crombie was one for whom most of 
the wise men, who considered the course of his 
early years, had predicted the gallows as an end 
before he should arrive at middle age. That 
these prophets of ill had been deceived was evi¬ 
dent from the fact that the doomed man had now 
passed the fortieth year, and was in more pros¬ 
perous circumstances than most of those who 
had wagged their tongues against him. Yet the 
failure of their forebodings was more remark¬ 
able than their fulfilment would have been. 

He had been distinguished, almost from his 
47 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


earliest infancy, by those precocious accomplish¬ 
ments, which, because they consist in an imita¬ 
tion of the vices and follies of maturity, render 
a boy the favorite plaything of men. He seemed 
to have received from nature the convivial tal¬ 
ents, which, whether natural or acquired, are a 
most dangerous possession ; and, before his 
twelfth year, he was the welcome associate of all 
the idle and dissipated of his neighborhood, and 
especially of those who haunted the tavern of 
which he had now become the landlord. Under 
this course of education, Hugh Crombie grew 
to youth and manhood; and the lovers of good 
words could only say in his favor, that he was 
a greater enemy to himself than to any one else, 
and that, if he should reform, few would have 
a better chance of prosperity than he. 

The former clause of this modicum of praise 
(if praise it may be termed) was indisputable ; 
but it may be doubted whether, under any cir¬ 
cumstances where his success depended on his 
own exertions, Hugh would have made his way 
well through the world. He was one of those 
unfortunate persons, who, instead of being per¬ 
fect in any single art or occupation, are super¬ 
ficial in many, and who are supposed to possess 
a larger share of talent than other men, because 
it consists of numerous scraps, instead of a sin¬ 
gle mass. He was partially acquainted with 
most of the manual arts that gave bread to 
48 


FANSHAWE 


others; but not one of them, nor all of them, 
would give bread to him. By some fatality, the 
only two of his multifarious accomplishments 
in which his excellence was generally conceded 
were both calculated to keep him poor rather 
than to make him rich. He was a musician and 
a poet. 

There are yet remaining in that portion of 
the country many ballads and songs, — set to 
their own peculiar tunes, — the authorship of 
which is attributed to him. In general, his pro¬ 
ductions were upon subjects of local and tem¬ 
porary interest, and would consequently require 
a bulk of explanatory notes to render them in¬ 
teresting or intelligible to the world at large. A 
considerable proportion of the remainder are 
Anacreontics ; though, in their construction, 
Hugh Crombie imitated neither the Teian nor 
any other bard. These latter have generally a 
coarseness and sensuality intolerable to minds 
even of no very fastidious delicacy. But there 
are two or three simple little songs, into which 
a feeling and a natural pathos have found their 
way, that still retain their influence over the 
heart. These, after two or three centuries, may 
perhaps be precious to the collectors of our early 
poetry. At any rate, Hugh Crombie's effusions, 
tavern haunter and vagrant though he was, have 
gained a continuance of fame (confined, indeed, 
to a narrow section of the country), which many 
49 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


who called themselves poets then, and would 
have scorned such a brother, have failed to 
equal. 

During the long winter evenings, when the 
farmers were idle round their hearths, Hugh 
was a courted guest; for none could while away 
the hours more skilfully than he. The win¬ 
ter, therefore, was his season of prosperity; in 
which respect he differed from the butterflies 
and useless insects, to which he otherwise bore 
a resemblance. During the cold months, a 
very desirable alteration for the better appeared 
in his outward man. His cheeks were plump 
and sanguine; his eyes bright and cheerful; 
and the tip of his nose glowed with a Bardolph- 
ian fire, — a flame, indeed, which Hugh was so 
far a vestal as to supply with its necessary fuel 
at all seasons of the year. But, as the spring 
advanced, he assumed a lean and sallow look, 
wilting and fading in the sunshine that brought 
life and Joy to every animal and vegetable ex¬ 
cept himself. His winter patrons eyed him 
with an austere regard; and some even prac¬ 
tised upon him the modern and fashionable 
courtesy of the cut direct.” 

Yet, after all, there was good, or something 
that Nature intended to be so, in the poor out¬ 
cast, — some lovely flowers, the sweeter even for 
the weeds that choked them. An instance of 
this was his affection for an aged father, whose 
50 


FANSHAWE 


whole support was the broken reed, — his son. 
Notwithstanding his own necessities,Hugh con¬ 
trived to provide food and raiment for the old 
man : how, it would be difficult to say, and per¬ 
haps as well not to inquire. He also exhibited 
traits of sensitiveness to neglect and insult, and 
of gratitude for favors ; both of which feelings 
a course of life like his is usually quick to 
eradicate. 

At length the restraint — for such his father 
had ever been — upon Hugh Crombie’s con¬ 
duct was removed by death ; and then the wise 
men and the old began to shake their heads; 
and they who took pleasure in the follies, vices, 
and misfortunes of their fellow creatures looked 
for a speedy gratification. They were disap¬ 
pointed, however; for Hugh had apparently 
determined, that, whatever might be his catas¬ 
trophe, he would meet it among strangers, rather 
than at home. Shortly after his father's death, 
he disappeared altogether from the vicinity; and 
his name became, in the course of years, an un¬ 
usual sound, where once the lack of other topics 
of interest had given it a considerable degree of 
notoriety. Sometimes, however, when the win¬ 
ter blast was loud round the lonely farmhouse, 
its inmates remembered him who had so often 
chased away the gloom of such an hour, and, 
though with little expectation of its fulfilment, 
expressed a wish to behold him again. 

51 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

Yet that wish, formed, perhaps, because it ap¬ 
peared so desperate, was finally destined to be 
gratified. One summer evening, about two years 
previous to the period of this tale, a man of sober 
and staid deportment, mounted upon a white 
horse, arrived at the Hand and Bottle, to which 
some civil or military meeting had chanced, that 
day, to draw most of the inhabitants of the 
vicinity. The stranger was well though plainly 
dressed, and anywhere but in a retired country 
town would have attracted no particular atten¬ 
tion ; but here, where a traveller was not of every¬ 
day occurrence, he was soon surrounded by a lit¬ 
tle crowd, who, when his eye was averted, seized 
the opportunity diligently to peruse his person. 
He was rather a thick-set man, but with no su¬ 
perfluous flesh ; his hair was of iron-gray ; he had 
a few wrinkles ; his face was so deeply sunburnt, 
that, excepting a half-smothered glow on the tip 
of his nose, a dusky yellow was the only appar¬ 
ent hue. As the people gazed, it was observed 
that the elderly men and the men of substance 
gat themselves silently to their steeds, and hied 
homeward with an unusual degree of haste; till 
at length the inn was deserted, except by a few 
wretched objects to whom it was a constant resort. 
These, instead of retreating, drew closer to the 
traveller, peeping anxiously into his face, and 
asking, ever and anon, a question, in order to 
discover the tone of his voice. At length, with 

52 


FANSHAWE 


one consent, and as if the recognition had at once 
burst upon them, they hailed their old boon com¬ 
panion, Hugh Crombie, and, leading him into 
the inn, did him the honor to partake of a cup 
of welcome at his expense. 

But, though Hugh readily acknowledged the 
not very reputable acquaintances who alone ac¬ 
knowledged him, they speedily discovered that 
he was an altered man. He partook with great 
moderation of the liquor for which he was to pay; 
he declined all their flattering entreaties for one 
of his old songs ; and finally, being urged to en¬ 
gage in a game at all-fours, he calmly observed, 
almost in the words of an old clergyman on a 
like occasion, that his principles forbade a pro¬ 
fane appeal to the decision by lot. 

On the next Sabbath Hugh Crombie made 
his appearance at public worship in the chapel of 
Harley College ; and here his outward demeanor 
was unexceptionably serious and devout, — a 
praise which, on that particular occasion, could 
be bestowed on few besides. From these favor¬ 
able symptoms, the old established prejudices 
against him began to waver; and as he seemed 
not to need, and to have no intention to ask, the 
assistance of any one, he was soon generally ac¬ 
knowledged by the rich as well as by the poor. 
His account of his past life, and of his intentions 
for the future, was brief, but not unsatisfactory. 
He said that, since his departure, he had been 
53 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


a seafaring man, and that, having acquired suffi¬ 
cient property to render him easy in the decline 
of his days, he had returned to live and die in 
the town of his nativity. 

There was one person, and the one whom 
Hugh was most interested to please, who seemed 
perfectly satisfied of the verity of his reformation. 
This was the landlady of the inn, whom, at his 
departure, he had left a gay, and, even at thirty- 
five, a rather pretty wife, and whom, on his re¬ 
turn, he found a widow of fifty, fat, yellow, 
wrinkled, and a zealous member of the church. 
She, like others, had at first cast a cold eye on 
the wanderer; but it shortly became evident to 
close observers that a change was at work in 
the pious matron’s sentiments respecting her old 
acquaintance. She was now careful to give him 
his morning dram from her own peculiar bottle, 
to fill his pipe from her private box of Virginia, 
and to mix for him the sleeping-cup in which her 
late husband had delighted. Of all these cour¬ 
tesies Hugh Crombie did partake with a wise 
and cautious moderation, that, while it proved 
them to be welcome, expressed his fear of tres¬ 
passing on her kindness. For the sake of brevity, 
it shall suffice to say, that, about six weeks after 
Hugh’s return, a writing appeared on one of 
the elm-trees in front of the tavern (where, as 
the place of greatest resort, such notices were 
usually displayed), setting forth that marriage 
54 


FANSHAWE 


was intended between Hugh Crombie and the 
Widow Sarah Hutchins. And the ceremony, 
which made Hugh a landholder, a householder, 
and a substantial man, in due time took place. 

As a landlord, his general conduct was very 
praiseworthy. He was moderate in his charges, 
and attentive to his guests ; he allowed no gross 
and evident disorders in his house, and prac¬ 
tised none himself; he was kind and charitable 
to such as needed food and lodging, and had not 
wherewithal to pay, — for with these his experi¬ 
ence had doubtless given him a fellow feeling. 
He was also sufficiently attentive to his wife ; 
though it must be acknowledged that the reli¬ 
gious zeal which had had a considerable influence 
in gaining her affections grew, by no moderate 
degrees, less fervent. It was whispered, too, that 
the new landlord could, when time, place, and 
company were to his mind, upraise a song as 
merrily, and drink a glass as jollily, as in the 
days of yore. These were the weightiest charges 
that could now be brought against him ; and wise 
men thought, that, whatever might have been 
the evil of his past life, he had returned with a 
desire (which years of vice, if they do not some¬ 
times produce, do not always destroy) of being 
honest, if opportunity should offer; and Hugh 
had certainly a fair one. 

On the afternoon previous to the events re¬ 
lated in the last chapter, the personage whose 
55 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


introduction to the reader has occupied so large 
a space was seated under one of the elms in front 
of his dwelling. The bench which now sus¬ 
tained him, and on which were carved the names 
of many former occupants, was Hugh Crombie’s 
favorite lounging place, unless when his atten¬ 
tions were required by his guests. No demand 
had that day been made upon the hospitality 
of the Hand and Bottle; and the landlord was 
just then murmuring at the unfrequency of em¬ 
ployment. The slenderness of his profits, in¬ 
deed, were no part of his concern ; for the Widow 
Hutchins’s chief income was drawn from her 
farm, nor was Hugh ever miserly inclined. But 
his education and habits had made him delight 
in the atmosphere of the inn, and in the society 
of those who frequented it; and of this species 
of enjoyment his present situation certainly did 
not afford an overplus. 

Yet had Hugh Crombie an enviable appear¬ 
ance of indolence and ease, as he sat under the 
old tree, polluting the sweet air with his pipe, 
and taking occasional draughts from a brown 
jug that stood near at hand. The basis of the 
potation contained in this vessel was harsh old 
cider, from the widow’s own orchard; but its 
coldness and acidity were rendered innocuous 
by a due proportion of yet older brandy. The 
result of this mixture was extremely felicitous, 
pleasant to the taste, and producing a tingling 


FANSHAWE 


sensation on the coats of the stomach, uncom¬ 
monly delectable to so old a toper as Hugh. 

The landlord cast his eye, ever and anon, 
along the road that led down the valley in the 
direction of the village ; and at last, when the 
sun was wearing westward, he discovered the 
approach of a horseman. He immediately re¬ 
plenished his pipe, took a long draught from 
the brown jug, summoned the ragged youth who 
officiated in most of the subordinate departments 
of the inn, and who was now to act as hostler, 
and then prepared himself for confabulation with 
his guest. 

He comes from the seacoast,*’ said Hugh 
to himself, as the traveller emerged into open 
view on the level road. “He is two days in 
advance of the post, with its news of a fortnight 
old. Pray Heaven he prove communicative ! ” 
Then, as the stranger drew nigher: “ One would 
judge that his dark face had seen as hot a sun 
as mine. He has felt the burning breeze of the 
Indies, East and West, I warrant him. Ah, I 
see we shall send away the evening merrily ! 
Not a penny shall come out of his purse,— 
that is, if his tongue runs glibly. Just the man 
I was praying for — Now may the Devil take 
me if he is ! interrupted Hugh, in accents of 
alarm, and starting from his seat. He composed 
his countenance, however, with the power that 
long habit and necessity had given him over his 
57 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


emotions, and again settled himself quietly on 
the bench. 

The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, 
alighted, and gave his horse to the ragged hos¬ 
tler. He then advanced towards the door near 
which Hugh was seated, whose agitation was 
manifested by no perceptible sign, except by the 
shorter and more frequent puffs with which he 
plied his pipe. Their eyes did not meet till just 
as the stranger was about to enter, when he 
started apparently with a surprise and alarm 
similar to those of Hugh Crombie. He recov¬ 
ered himself, however, sufficiently to return the 
nod of recognition with which he was favored, 
and immediately entered the house, the land¬ 
lord following. 

“ This way, if you please, sir,’* said Hugh. 
‘‘ You will find this apartment cool and retired.” 

He ushered his guest into a small room the 
windows of which were darkened by the creep¬ 
ing plants that clustered round them. Entering, 
and closing the door, the two gazed at each 
other a little space without speaking. The 
traveller first broke silence. 

‘‘Then this is your living self, Hugh Crom¬ 
bie ? ” he said. The landlord extended his hand 
as a practical reply to the question. The stran¬ 
ger took it, though with no especial appearance 
of cordiality. 

“ Ay, this seems to be flesh and blood,” he 

58 


FANSHAWE 


said, in the tone of one who would willingly 
have found it otherwise. And how happens 
this, friend Hugh ? I little thought to meet 
you again in this life. When I last heard from 
you, your prayers were said, and you were bound 
for a better world.” 

‘‘ There would have been small danger of 
your meeting me there,” observed the landlord 
dryly. 

‘‘It is an unquestionable truth, Hugh,” re¬ 
plied the traveller. “ For which reason I regret 
that your voyage was delayed.” 

“ Nay, that is a hard word to bestow on your 
old comrade,” said Hugh Crombie. “The 
world is wide enough for both of us ; and why 
should you wish me out of it ? ” 

“ Wide as it is,” rejoined the stranger, “ we 
have stumbled against each other, — to the plea¬ 
sure of neither of us, if I may judge from your 
countenance. Methinks I am not a welcome 
guest at Hugh Crombie’s inn.” 

“Your welcome must depend on the cause 
of your coming, and the length of your stay,” 
replied the landlord. 

“ And what if I come to settle down among 
these quiet hills where I was born ? ” inquired 
the other. “ What if I, too, am weary of the 
life we have led, — or afraid, perhaps, that it 
will come to too speedy an end ? Shall I have 
your good word, Hugh, to set me up in an hon- 
59 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


est way of life ? Or will you make me a part¬ 
ner in your trade, since you know my qualifica¬ 
tions ? A pretty pair of publicans should we 
be; and the quart pot would have little rest 
between us.” 

“ It may be as well to replenish it now,” ob¬ 
served Hugh, stepping to the door of the room, 
and giving orders accordingly. “A meeting 
between old friends should never be dry. But 
for the partnership, it is a matter in which you 
must excuse me. Heaven knows I find it hard 
enough to be honest, with no tempter but the 
Devil and my own thoughts; and, if I have 
you also to contend with, there is little hope 
of me.” 

Nay, that is true. Your good resolutions 
were always like cobwebs, and your evil habits 
like five-inch cables,” replied the traveller. I 
am to understand, then, that you refuse my of¬ 
fer?” 

Not only that; but, if you have chosen this 
valley as your place of rest. Dame Crombie and 
I must look through the world for another. 
But hush ! here comes the wine.” 

The hostler, in the performance of another 
part of his duty, now appeared, bearing a mea¬ 
sure of the liquor that Hugh had ordered. The 
wine of that period, owing to the comparative 
lowness of the duties, was of more moderate 
6o 


FANSHAWE 


price than in the mother country, and of purer 
and better quality than at the present day. 

“ The stuff is well chosen, Hugh,” observed 
the guest, after a draught large enough to author¬ 
ize an opinion. ‘‘You have most of the re¬ 
quisites for your present station ; and I should 
be sorry to draw you from it. I trust there will 
be no need.” 

“Yet you have a purpose in your journey 
hither,” observed his comrade. 

“Yes; and you would fain be informed of 
it,” replied the traveller. He arose, and walked 
once or twice across the room ; then, seeming 
to have taken his resolution, he paused, and 
fixed his eye steadfastly on Hugh Crombie. “ I 
could wish, my old acquaintance,” he said, “ that 
your lot had been cast anywhere rather than here. 
Yet, if you choose it, you may do me a good 
office, and one that shall meet with a good re¬ 
ward. Can I trust you ? ” 

“ My secrecy you can,” answered the host, 
“ but nothing further. I know the nature of 
your plans, and whither they would lead me, too 
well to engage in them. To say the truth, since 
it concerns not me, I have little desire to hear 
your secret.” 

“ And I as little to tell it, I do assure you,” 
rejoined the guest. “ I have always loved to 
manage my affairs myself, and to keep them to 

6i 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


myself. It is a good rule ; but it must some¬ 
times be broken. And now, Hugh, how is it 
that you have become possessed of this com¬ 
fortable dwelling and of these pleasant fields ? 

“By my marriage with the Widow Sarah 
Hutchins,” replied Hugh Crombie, staring at a 
question which seemed to have little reference 
to the present topic of conversation. 

“ It is a most excellent method of becoming 
a man of substance,” continued the traveller; 
“ attended with little trouble, and honest withal.” 

“ Why, as to the trouble,” said the landlord, 
“ it follows such a bargain, instead of going be¬ 
fore it. And for honesty, — I do not recollect 
that I have gained a penny more honestly these 
twenty years.” 

“ I can swear to that,” observed his comrade. 
“Well, mine host, I entirely approve of your 
doings, and, moreover, have resolved to prosper 
after the same fashion myself” 

“ If that be the commodity you seek,” re¬ 
plied Hugh Crombie, “ you will find none here 
to your mind. We have widows in plenty, it is 
true; but most of them have children, and few 
have houses and lands. But now to be serious, 
— and there has been something serious in 
your eye all this while, — what is your purpose 
in coming hither? You are not safe here. 
Your name has had a wider spread than mine, 
and, if discovered, it will go hard with you.” 

62 


FANSHAWE 


“ But who would know me now ? asked the 
guest. 

‘‘ Few, few indeed! replied the landlord, gaz¬ 
ing at the dark features of his companion, where 
hardship, peril, and dissipation had each left their 
traces. ‘‘ No, you are not like the slender boy 
of fifteen, who stood on the hill by moonlight 
to take a last look at his father’s cottage. There 
were tears in your eyes then; and, as often as 
I remember them, I repent that I did not turn 
you back, instead of leading you on.” 

‘‘ Tears, were there ? Well, there have been 
few enough since,” said his comrade, pressing 
his eyelids firmly together, as if even then 
tempted to give way to the weakness that he 
scorned. ‘‘ And, for turning me back, Hugh, 
it was beyond your power. I had taken my 
resolution, and you did but show me the way to 
execute it.” 

“You have not inquired after those you left 
behind,” observed Hugh Crombie. 

“No — no ; nor will I have aught of them I ” 
exclaimed the traveller, starting from his seat, 
and pacing rapidly across the room. “ My 
father, I know, is dead, and I have forgiven him. 
My mother — what could I hear of her but 
misery ? I will hear nothing.” 

“You must have passed the cottage as you 
rode hitherward,” said Hugh. “ How could 
you forbear to enter ? ” 

63 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


I did not see it/' he replied. “ I closed my 
eyes, and turned away my head.” 

“ O, if I had had a mother, a loving mother I 
if there had been one being in the world that 
loved me, or cared for me, I should not have 
become an utter castaway! ” exclaimed Hugh 
Crombie. 

The landlord's pathos, like all pathos that 
flows from the winecup, was sufliciently ridic¬ 
ulous ; and his companion, who had already 
overcome his own brief feelings of sorrow and 
remorse, now laughed aloud. 

Come, come, mine host of the Hand and 
Bottle,'' he cried, in his usual hard, sarcastic tone, 
‘‘ be a man as much as in you lies! You had 
always a foolish trick of repentance; but, as I 
remember, it was commonly of a morning, be¬ 
fore you had swallowed your first dram. And 
now, Hugh, fill the quart pot again, and we will 
to business.'' 

When the landlord had complied with the 
wishes of his guest, the latter resumed in a lower 
tone than that of his ordinary conversation: — 

“There is a young lady lately become a resi¬ 
dent hereabouts. Perhaps you can guess her 
name; for you have a quick apprehension in 
these matters.'' 

“ A young lady ?'' repeated Hugh Crombie. 
“ And what is your concern with her ? Do you 
mean Ellen Langton, daughter of the old mer- 
64 


FANSHAWE 


chant Langton, whom you have some cause to 
remember ? 

“ I do remember him ; but he is where he will 
speedily be forgotten/’ answered the traveller. 

And this girl, — I know your eye has been 
upon her, Hugh, — describe her to me.” 

Describe her ! ” exclaimed Hugh with much 
animation. “ It is impossible in prose ; but 
you shall have her very picture in a verse of 
one of my own songs.” 

Nay, mine host, I beseech you to spare me. 
This is no time for quavering,” said the guest. 

However, I am proud of your approbation, 
my old friend; for this young lady do I intend 
to take to wife. What think you of the plan ? ” 
Hugh Crombie gazed into his companion’s 
face for the space of a moment, in silence. 
There was nothing in its expression that looked 
like a jest. It still retained the same hard, cold 
look, that, except when Hugh had alluded to 
his home and family, it had worn through their 
whole conversation. 

On my word, comrade ! ” he at length re¬ 
plied, ‘‘ my advice is, that you give over your 
application to the quart pot, and refresh your 
brain by a short nap. And yet your eye is cool 
and steady. What is the meaning of this ? ” 

Listen, and you shall know,” said the guest. 

The old man, her father, is in his grave.” 

Not a bloody grave, I trust,” interrupted 

65 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


the landlord, starting, and looking fearfully 
into his comrade’s face. 

‘‘ No, a watery one,” he replied calmly. “ You 
see, Hugh, I am a better man than you took me 
for. The old man’s blood is not on my head, 
though my wrongs are on his. Now listen: he 
had no heir but this only daughter; and to her, 
and to the man she marries, all his wealth will 
belong. She shall marry me. Think you her 
father will rest easy in the ocean, Hugh Crom- 
bie, when I am his son-in-law ? ” 

No, he will rise up to prevent it, if need 
be,” answered the landlord. “ But the dead 
need not interpose to frustrate so wild a 
scheme.” 

‘‘ I understand you,” said his comrade. ‘‘You 
are of opinion that the young lady’s consent may 
not be so soon won as asked. Fear not for that, 
mine host. I have a winning way with me, 
when opportunity serves ; and it shall serve with 
Ellen Langton. I will have no rivals in my 
wooing.” 

“ Your intention, if I take it rightly, is to get 
this poor girl into your power, and then to force 
her into a marriage,” said Hugh Crombie. 

“ It is ; and I think I possess the means of 
doing it,” replied his comrade. “ But methinks, 
friend Hugh, my enterprise has not your good 
wishes.” 

“ No ; and I pray you to give it over,” said 
66 


FANSHAWE 


Hugh Cromble very earnestly. The girl is 
young, lovely, and as good as she is fair. I can¬ 
not aid in her ruin. Nay, more : I must pre¬ 
vent it.*’ 

Prevent it! ** exclaimed the traveller, with a 
darkening countenance. Think twice before 
you stir in this matter, I advise you. Ruin, do 
you say ? Does a girl call it ruin to be made 
an honest wedded wife ? No, no, mine host! 
nor does a widow either, else have you much to 
answer for.” 

I gave the Widow Hutchins fair play, at 
least, which is more tha'n poor Ellen is like to 
get,” observed the landlord. ‘‘ My old com¬ 
rade, will you not give up this scheme ? ” 

My old comrade, I will not give up this 
scheme,” returned the other composedly. 
‘‘ Why, Hugh, what has come over you since 
we last met ? Have we not done twenty worse 
deeds of a morning, and laughed over them at 
night?” 

He is right there,” said Hugh Cromble, in 
a meditative tone. “ Of a certainty, my con¬ 
science has grown unreasonably tender within 
the last two years. This one small sin, if I 
were to aid in it, would add but a trifle to the 
sum of mine. But then the poor girl ! ” 

His companion overheard him thus commun¬ 
ing with himself, and having had much former 
experience of his infirmity of purpose, doubted 
67 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


not that he should bend him to his will. In 
fact, his arguments were so effectual, that Hugh 
at length, though reluctantly, promised his co¬ 
operation. It was necessary that their motions 
should be speedy ; for on the second day there¬ 
after, the arrival of the post would bring intelli¬ 
gence of the shipwreck by which Mr. Langton 
had perished. 

‘‘ And after the deed is done,*’ said the land¬ 
lord, “ I beseech you never to cross my path 
again. There have been more wicked thoughts 
in my head within the last hour than for the 
whole two years that I have been an honest 
man.” 

“ What a saint art thou become, Hugh ! ” 
said his comrade. ‘‘ But fear not that we shall 
meet again. When I leave this valley, it will 
be to enter it no more.” 

‘‘ And there is little danger that any other 
who has known me will chance upon me here,” 
observed Hugh Crombie. Our trade was un¬ 
favorable to length of days, and I suppose most 
of our old comrades have arrived at the end of 
theirs.” 

“ One whom you knew well is nearer to you 
than you think,” answered the traveller; for 
I did not travel hitherward entirely alone.” 

68 


CHAPTER V 


A naughty night to swim in.” — Shakespeare. 

T he evening of the day succeeding the 
adventure of the angler was dark and 
tempestuous. The rain descended al¬ 
most in a continuous sheet, and occasional pow¬ 
erful gusts of wind drove it hard against the 
northeastern windows of Hugh Crombie’s inn. 
But at least one apartment of the interior pre¬ 
sented a scene of comfort and of apparent en¬ 
joyment, the more delightful from its contrast 
with the elemental fury that raged without. A 
fire, which the chillness of the evening, though 
a summer one, made necessary, was burning 
brightly on the hearth; and in front was placed 
a small round table, sustaining wine and glasses. 
One of the guests for whom these preparations 
had been made was Edward Walcott; the other 
was a shy, awkward young man, distinguished, 
by the union of classic and rural dress, as hav¬ 
ing but lately become a student of Harley Col¬ 
lege. He seemed little at his ease, probably 
from a consciousness that he was on forbidden 
ground, and that the wine, of which he never¬ 
theless swallowed a larger share than his com¬ 
panion, was an unlawful draught. 

69 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


In the catalogue of crimes provided against 
by the laws of Harley College, that of tavern- 
haunting was one of the principal. The secluded 
situation of the seminary, indeed, gave its schol¬ 
ars but a very limited choice of vices ; and this 
was, therefore, the usual channel by which the 
wildness of youth discharged itself. Edward 
Walcott, though naturally temperate, had been 
not an unfrequent ojffender in this respect, for 
which a superfluity both of time and money 
might plead some excuse. But, since his ac¬ 
quaintance with Ellen Langton, he had rarely 
entered Hugh Crombie’s doors; and an inter¬ 
ruption in that acquaintance was the cause of his 
present appearance there. 

Edward's jealous pride had been considerably 
touched on Ellen's compliance with the request 
of the angler. He had, by degrees, impercep¬ 
tible perhaps to himself, assumed the right of 
feeling displeased with her conduct; and she 
had, as imperceptibly, accustomed herself to 
consider what would be his wishes, and to act 
accordingly. He would, indeed, in no contin¬ 
gency have ventured an open remonstrance; 
and such a proceeding would have been attended 
by a result the reverse of what he desired. But 
there existed between them a silent compact 
(acknowledged perhaps by neither, but felt by 
both), according to which they had regulated 
the latter part of their intercourse. Their lips 
70 


FANSHAWE 


had yet spoken no word of love; but some of 
love's rights and privileges had been assumed on 
the one side, and at least not disallowed on the 
other. 

Edward's penetration had been sufficiently 
quick to discover that there was a mystery about 
the angler, that there must have been a cause 
for the blush that rose so proudly on Ellen's 
cheek ; and his Quixotism had been not a little 
mortified, because she did not immediately ap¬ 
peal to his protection. He had, however, paid 
his usual visit the next day at Dr. Melmoth's, 
expecting that, by a smile of more than com¬ 
mon brightness, she would make amends to his 
wounded feelings; such having been her usual 
mode of reparation in the few instances of dis¬ 
agreement that had occurred between them. 
But he was disappointed. He found her cold, 
silent, and abstracted, inattentive when he spoke, 
and indisposed to speak herself. Her eye was 
sedulously averted from his ; and the casual 
meeting of their glances only proved that there 
were feelings in her bosom which he did not 
share. He was unable to account for this change 
in her deportment; and, added to his previous 
conceptions of his wrongs, it produced an effect 
upon his rather hasty temper, that might have 
manifested itself violently, but for the presence 
of Mrs. Melmoth. He took his leave in very 
evident displeasure; but, just as he closed the 

71 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


door, he noticed an expression in Ellen’s coun¬ 
tenance, that, had they been alone, and had not 
he been quite so proud, would have drawn him 
down to her feet. Their eyes met, when, sud¬ 
denly, there was a gush of tears into those of 
Ellen; and a deep sadness, almost despair, 
spread itself over her features. He paused a 
moment, and then went his way, equally unable 
to account for her coldness or for her grief. 
He was. well aware, however, that his situation 
in respect to her was unaccountably changed, — 
a conviction so disagreeable, that, but for a hope 
that is latent even in the despair of youthful 
hearts, he would have been sorely tempted to 
shoot himself. 

The gloom of his thoughts — a mood of 
mind the more intolerable to him because so 
unusual — had driven him to Hugh Crombie’s 
inn in search of artificial excitement. But even 
the wine had no attractions ; and his first glass 
stood now almost untouched before him, while 
he gazed in heavy thought into the glowing 
embers of the fire. His companion perceived 
his melancholy, and essayed to dispel it by a 
choice of such topics of conversation as he con¬ 
ceived would be most agreeable. 

“ There is a lady in the house,” he observed. 
“ I caught a glimpse of her in the passage as we 
came in. Did you see her, Edward ? ” 

‘‘ A lady ! ” repeated Edward carelessly. 

72 


FANSHAWE 


“ What know you of ladies ? No, I did not see 
her; but I will venture to say that it was Dame 
Crombie’s self, and no other/’ 

‘‘Well, perhaps it might,” said the other 
doubtingly. “ Her head was turned from me, 
and she was gone like a shadow.” 

“ Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never 
vanishes like one,” resumed Edward. “ You 
have mistaken the slipshod servant girl for a 
lady.” 

“ Ay; but she had a white hand, a small 
white hand,” said the student, piqued at Ed¬ 
ward’s contemptuous opinion of his powers of 
observation ; ‘‘ as white as Ellen Langton’s.” 
He paused; for the lover was ojffended by the 
profanity of the comparison, as was made evi¬ 
dent by the blood that rushed to his brow. 

“We will appeal to the landlord,” said Ed¬ 
ward, recovering his equanimity, and turning to 
Hugh, who just then entered the room. “ Who 
is this angel, mine host, that has taken up her 
abode in the Hand and Bottle?” 

Hugh cast a quick glance from one to an¬ 
other before he answered: “ I keep no angels 
here, gentlemen. Dame Crombie would make 
the house anything but heaven for them and 
me.” 

“And yet Glover has seen a vision in the 
passageway, — a lady with a small white hand.” 

“ Ah, I understand ! A slight mistake of 

73 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


the young gentleman’s/’ said Hugh, with the 
air of one who could perfectly account for the 
mystery. ‘‘ Our passageway is dark ; or per¬ 
haps the light had dazzled his eyes. It was 
the Widow Fowler’s daughter, that came to bor¬ 
row a pipe of tobacco for her mother. By the 
same token, she put it into her own sweet 
mouth, and puffed as she went along.” 

“ But the white hand,” said Glover, only half 
convinced. 

“ Nay, I know not,” answered Hugh. But 
her hand was at least as white as her face : that 
I can swear. Well, gentlemen, I trust you find 
everything in my house to your satisfaction. 
When the fire needs renewing, or the wine runs 
low, be pleased to tap on the table. I shall ap¬ 
pear with the speed of a sunbeam.” 

After the departure of the landlord, the con¬ 
versation of the young men amounted to little 
more than monosyllables. Edward Walcott was 
wrapped in his own contemplations ; and his 
companion was in a half-slumberous state, from 
which he started every quarter of an hour, at 
the chiming of the clock that stood in a corner. 
The fire died gradually away; the lamps began 
to burn dim ; and Glover, rousing himself from 
one of his periodical slumbers, was about to pro¬ 
pose a return to their chambers. He was pre¬ 
vented, however, by the approach of footsteps 
along the passageway; and Hugh Crombie, 
74 


FANSHAWE 


opening the door, ushered a person into the 
room, and retired. 

The newcomer was Fanshawe. The water 
that poured plentifully from his cloak evinced 
that he had but just arrived at the inn ; but, 
whatever was his object, he seemed not to have 
attained it in meeting with the young men. 
He paused near the door, as if meditating 
whether to retire. 

“ My intrusion is altogether owing to a mis¬ 
take, either of the landlord’s or mine,” he said. 

I came hither to seek another person; but, 
as I could not mention his name, my inquiries 
were rather vague.” 

thank Heaven for the chance that sent 
you to us,” replied Edward, rousing himself. 

Glover is wretched company; and a duller 
evening have I never spent. We will renew 
our fire and our wine, and you must sit down 
with us. And for the man you seek,” he con¬ 
tinued in a whisper, he left the inn within a 
half-hour after we encountered him. I in¬ 
quired of Hugh Crombie last night.” 

Fanshawe did not express his doubts of the 
correctness of the information on which Edward 
seemed to rely. Laying aside his cloak, he ac¬ 
cepted his invitation to make one of the party, 
and sat down by the fireside. 

The aspect of the evening now gradually 
changed. A strange wild glee spread from one 
75 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


to another of the party, which, much to the sur¬ 
prise of his companions, began with and was 
communicated from Fanshawe. He seemed to 
overflow with conceptions inimitably ludicrous, 
but so singular, that, till his hearers had imbibed 
a portion of his own spirit, they could only won¬ 
der at, instead of enjoying them. His appli¬ 
cations to the wine were very unfrequent; yet 
his conversation was such as one might expect 
from a bottle of champagne endowed by a fairy 
with the gift of speech. The secret of this 
strange mirth lay in the troubled state of his 
spirits, which, like the vexed ocean at midnight 
(if the simile be not too magnificent), tossed 
forth a mysterious brightness. The undefined 
apprehensions that had drawn him to the inn 
still distracted his mind ; but, mixed with them, 
there was a sort of joy not easily to be described. 
By degrees, and by the assistance of the wine, 
the inspiration spread, each one contributing 
such a quantity, and such quality of wit and 
whim, as was proportioned to his genius; but 
each one, and all, displaying a greater share of 
both than they had ever been suspected of pos¬ 
sessing. 

At length, however, there was a pause,— 
the deep pause of flagging spirits, that always 
follows mirth and wine. No one would have 
believed, on beholding the pensive faces and 
hearing the involuntary sighs of the party, that 
76 


FANSHAWE 


from these, but a moment before, had arisen so 
loud and wild a laugh. During this interval 
Edward Walcott (who was the poet of his class) 
volunteered the following song, which, from its 
want of polish, and from its application to his 
present feelings, might charitably be taken for 
an extemporaneous production : — 

The wine is bright, the wine is bright. 

And gay the drinkers be : 

Of all that drain the bowl to-night, 

Most jollily drain we. 

O, could one search the weary earth, — 

The earth from sea to sea, — 

He’d turn and mingle in our mirth j 
For we ’re tlie merriest three. 

Yet there are cares, O, heavy cares ! 

We know that they are nigh; 

When forth each lonely drinker frres, 

Mark then his altered eye. 

Care comes upon us when the jest 
And frantic laughter die j 

And care will watch the parting guest, — 

O late, then let us fly ! 

Hugh Crombie, whose early love of song and 
minstrelsy was still alive, had entered the room 
at the sound of Edward's voice, in sufficient time 
to accompany the second stanza on the violin. 
He now, with the air of one who was entitled 
to judge in these matters, expressed his opinion 
of the performance. 

“ Really, Master Walcott, I was not pre¬ 
pared for this," he said, in the tone of conde¬ 
scending praise that a great man uses to his in- 
77 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


ferior when he chooses to overwhelm him with 
excess of joy. “ Very well, indeed, young gen¬ 
tleman ! Some of the lines, it is true, seem to 
have been dragged in by the head and shoul¬ 
ders ; but I could scarcely have done much bet¬ 
ter myself at your age. With practice, and with 
such instruction as I might afford you, I should 
have little doubt of your becoming a distin¬ 
guished poet. A great defect in your seminary, 
gentlemen, — the want of due cultivation in this 
heavenly art.’* 

“ Perhaps, sir,” said Edward, with much 
gravity, you might yourself be prevailed upon 
to accept the professorship of poetry ? ” 

“ Why, such an offer would require consider¬ 
ation,” replied the landlord. Professor Hugh 
Crombie of Harley College: it has a good sound, 
assuredly. But I am a public man. Master 
Walcott; and the public would be loath to 
spare me from my present office.” 

“ Will Professor Crombie favor us with a 
specimen of his productions ? ” inquired Edward. 

Ahem ! I shall be happy to gratify you, 
young gentleman,” answered Hugh. “ It is 
seldom, in this rude country. Master Walcott, 
that we meet with kindred genius ; and the op¬ 
portunity should never be thrown away.*” 

Thus saying, he took a heavy draught of the 
liquor by which he was usually inspired, and 
the praises of which were the prevailing subject 

78 


FANSHAWE 


of his song ; then, after much hemming, thrum¬ 
ming, and prelusion, and with many queer ges¬ 
tures and gesticulations, he began to effuse a 
lyric in the following fashion : — 

I ’ve been a jolly drinker this five-and-twenty year, 

And still a jolly drinker, my friends, you see me here : 

I sing the joys of drinking ; bear a chorus, every man. 

With pint pot and quart pot and clattering of can. 

The sense of the professor’s first stanza was 
not in exact proportion to the sound ; but, 
being executed with great spirit, it attracted uni¬ 
versal applause. This Hugh appropriated with 
a condescending bow and smile; and, making 
a signal for silence, he went on: — 

King Solomon of old, boys (a jolly king was he) — 

But here he was interrupted by a clapping of 
hands, that seemed a continuance of the ap¬ 
plause bestowed on his former stanza. Hugh 
Crombie, who, as is the custom of many great 
performers, usually sang with his eyes shut, now 
opened them, intending gently to rebuke his 
auditors for their unseasonable expression of 
delight. He immediately perceived, however, 
that the fault was to be attributed to neither of 
the three young men; and, following the direc¬ 
tion of their eyes, he saw near the door, in the 
dim background of the apartment, a figure in a 
cloak. The hat was flapped forward, the cloak 
muffled round the lower part of the face; and 
only the eyes were visible. 

79 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


The party gazed a moment in silence, and 
then rushed en masse upon the intruder, the 
landlord bringing up the rear, and sounding a 
charge upon his fiddle. But, as they drew nigh, 
the black cloak began to assume a familiar look ; 
the hat, also, was an old acquaintance ; and, these 
being removed, from beneath them shone forth 
the reverend face and form of Dr. Melmoth. 

The president, in his quality of clergyman, 
had, late in the preceding afternoon, been called 
to visit an aged female who was supposed to be 
at the point of death. Her habitation was at 
the distance of several miles from Harley Col¬ 
lege; so that it was nightfall before Dr. Mel¬ 
moth stood at her bedside. His stay had been 
lengthened beyond his anticipation, on account 
of the frame of mind in which he found the 
dying woman ; and, after essaying to impart the 
comforts of religion to her disturbed intellect, 
he had waited for the abatement of the storm 
that had arisen while he was thus engaged. As 
the evening advanced, however, the rain poured 
down in undiminished cataracts ; and the doc¬ 
tor, trusting to the prudence and sure-footedness 
of his steed, had at length set forth on his 
return. The darkness of the night and the 
roughness of the road might have appalled 
him, even had his horsemanship and his courage 
been more considerable than they were ; but 
by the special protection of Providence, as he 
8o 


FANSHAWE 


reasonably supposed (for he was a good man, 
and on a good errand), he arrived safely as far 
as Hugh Crombie's inn. Dr. Melmoth had 
no intention of making a stay there ; but, as the 
road passed within a very short distance, he saw 
lights in the windows, and heard the sound of 
song and revelry. It immediately occurred to 
him, that these midnight rioters were, probably, 
some of the young men of his charge; and he 
was impelled, by a sense of duty, to enter and 
disperse them. Directed by the voices, he 
found his way, with some difficulty, to the apart¬ 
ment, just as Hugh concluded his first stanza,; 
and, amidst the subsequent applause, his en¬ 
trance had been unperceived. 

There was a silence of a moment's continu¬ 
ance after the discovery of Dr. Melmoth, dur¬ 
ing which he attempted to clothe his round, 
good-natured face in a look of awful dignity. 
But, in spite of himself^ there was a little twist¬ 
ing of the corners of his mouth, and a smothered 
gleam in his eye. 

“This has, apparently, been a very merry 
meeting, young gentlemen," he at length said; 
“ but I fear my presence has cast a damp upon 
it." 

“ O yes! your reverence's cloak is wet 
enough to cast a damp upon anything!" ex¬ 
claimed Hugh Crombie, assuming a look of 
tender anxiety. “The young gentlemen are 

8i 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


affrighted for your valuable life. Fear deprives 
them of utterance ; permit me to relieve you of 
these dangerous garments.” 

‘‘ Trouble not yourself, honest man,” replied 
the doctor, who was one of the most gullible 
of mortals. I trust I am in no danger, my 
dwelling being near at hand. But for these 
young men ” — 

“ Would your reverence but honor my Sun¬ 
day suit, — the gray broadcloth coat, and the 
black velvet smallclothes that have covered my 
unworthy legs but once ? Dame Crombie shall 
have them ready in a moment,” continued 
Hugh, beginning to divest the doctor of his 
garments. 

“ I pray you to appease your anxiety! ” cried 
Dr. Melmoth, retaining a firm hold on such 
parts of his dress as yet remained to him. “ Fear 
not for my health. I will but speak a word to 
those misguided youth, and be gone.” 

“ Misguided youth, did your reverence say ? 
echoed Hugh, in a tone of utter astonishment. 
‘‘ Never were they better guided than when they 
entered my poor house. O, had your rever¬ 
ence but seen them, when I heard their cries, 
and rushed forth to their assistance 1 Dripping 
with wet were they, like three drowned men at 
the resurrec— Ahem 1 ” interrupted Hugh, 
recollecting that the comparison he meditated 
might not suit the doctor's ideas of propriety. 

82 


FANSHAWE 


“ But why were they abroad on such a night ? 
inquired the president. 

Ah ! doctor, you little know the love these 
good young gentlemen bear for you,'* replied 
the landlord. ‘^Your absence, your long ab¬ 
sence, had alarmed them ; and they rushed forth 
through the rain and darkness to seek you." 

“ And was this indeed so ? " asked the doctor, 
in a softened tone, and casting a tender and 
grateful look upon the three students. They, 
it is but justice to mention, had simultaneously 
made a step forward in order to contradict the 
egregious falsehoods of which Hugh's fancy was 
so fertile ; but he assumed an expression of 
such ludicrous entreaty, that it was irresistible. 

But methinks their anxiety was not of long 
continuance," observed Dr. Melmoth, looking 
at the wine, and remembering the song that his 
entrance had interrupted. 

‘‘ Ah! your reverence disapproves of the 
wine, I see," answered Hugh Crombie. “ I 
did but offer them a drop to keep the life in 
their poor young hearts. My dame advised 
strong waters. ‘ But, Dame Crombie,' says I, 
‘ would ye corrupt their youth ?' And in my 
zeal for their good, doctor, I was delighting 
them, just at your entrance, with a pious little 
melody of my own against the sin of drunken¬ 
ness." 

“ Truly, I remember something of the kind," 

83 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


observed Dr. Melmoth. “ And, as I think, it 
seemed to meet with good acceptance.” 

Ay, that it did! ” said the landlord. Will 
it please your reverence to hear it ? — 

King Solomon of old, boys (a wise man I ’m thinking), 

Has warned you to beware of the horrid vice of drinking — 

But why talk I of drinking, foolish man that I 
am ! And all this time, doctor, you have not 
sipped a drop of my wine. Now I entreat 
your reverence, as you value your health and 
the peace and quiet of these youth.” 

Dr. Melmoth drank a glass of wine, with the 
benevolent intention of allaying the anxiety of 
Hugh Crombie and the students. He then 
prepared to depart; for a strong wind had par¬ 
tially dispersed the clouds, and occasioned an 
interval in the cataract of rain. There was, 
perhaps, a little suspicion yet remaining in the 
good man’s mind respecting the truth of the 
landlord’s story ; at least, it was his evident in¬ 
tention to see the students fairly out of the inn 
before he quitted it himself. They therefore 
proceeded along the passageway in a body. The 
lamp that Hugh Crombie held but dimly en¬ 
lightened them ; and the number and contiguity 
of the doors caused Dr. Melmoth to lay his 
hand upon the wrong one. 

Not there, not there, doctor ! It is Dame 
Crombie’s bedchamber!” shouted Hugh most 
energetically. “Now Beelzebub defend me ! ” 
84 


FANSHAWE 


he muttered to himself, perceiving that his ex¬ 
clamation had been a moment too late. 

Heavens ! what do I see ? ejaculated Dr. 
Melmoth, lifting his hands, and starting back 
from the entrance of the room. The three stu¬ 
dents pressed forward; Mrs. Crombie and the 
servant girl had been drawn to the spot by the 
sound of Hugh's voice ; and all their wonder¬ 
ing eyes were fixed on poor Ellen Langton. 

The apartment in the midst of which she 
stood was dimly lighted by a solitary candle at 
the farther extremity; but Ellen was exposed 
to the glare of the three lamps, held by Hugh, 
his wife, and the servant girl. Their combined 
rays seemed to form a focus exactly at the point 
where they reached her; and the beholders, 
had any been sufficiently calm, might have 
watched her features in their agitated workings 
and frequent change of expression, as perfectly 
as by the broad light of day. Terror had at 
first blanched her as white as a lily, or as a mar¬ 
ble statue, which for a moment she resembled, as 
she stood motionless in the centre of the room. 
Shame next bore sway; and her blushing coun¬ 
tenance, covered by her slender white fingers, 
might fantastically be compared to a variegated 
rose with its alternate stripes of white and red. 
The next instant, a sense of her pure and in¬ 
nocent intentions gave her strength and cour¬ 
age ; and her attitude and look had now some- 

85 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


thing of pride and dignity. These, however, 
in their turn, gave way ; for Edward Walcott 
pressed forward, and attempted to address her. 

“ Ellen, Ellen ! ” he said, in an agitated and 
quivering whisper ; but what was to follow can¬ 
not be known, for his emotion checked his ut¬ 
terance. His tone and look, however, again 
overcame Ellen Langton, and she burst into 
tears. Fanshawe advanced, and took Edward’s 
arm. She has been deceived,” he whispered. 

She is innocent: you are unworthy of her if 
you doubt it.” 

‘‘ Why do you interfere, sir ? ” demanded 
Edward, whose passions, thoroughly excited, 
would willingly have wreaked themselves on 
any one. “ What right have you to speak of 
her innocence ? Perhaps,” he continued, an 
undefined and ridiculous suspicion arising in his 
mind, — perhaps you are acquainted with her 
intentions. Perhaps you are the deceiver.” 

Fanshawe’s temper was not naturally of the 
meekest character ; and having had a thousand 
bitter feelings of his own to overcome, before he 
could attempt to console Edward, this rude re¬ 
pulse had almost aroused him to fierceness. But 
his pride, of which a more moderate degree 
would have had a less peaceable effect, came to 
his assistance ; and he turned calmly and con¬ 
temptuously away. 

Ellen, in the meantime, had been restored to 
86 


FANSHAWE 


some degree of composure. To this effect a 
feeling of pique against Edward Walcott had con¬ 
tributed. She had distinguished his voice in the 
neighboring apartment, had heard his mirth and 
wild laughter, without being aware of the state of 
feeling that produced them. She had supposed 
that the terms on which they parted in the morn¬ 
ing (which had been very grievous to herself) 
would have produced a corresponding sadness 
in him. But while she sat in loneliness and in 
tears, her bosom distracted by a thousand anxi¬ 
eties and sorrows, of many of which Edward was 
the object, his reckless gayety had seemed to 
prove the slight regard in which he held her. 
After the first outbreak of emotion, therefore, 
she called up her pride (of which, on proper 
occasions, she had a reasonable share), and sus¬ 
tained his upbraiding glance with a passive com¬ 
posure, which women have more readily at com¬ 
mand than men. 

Dr. Melmoth's surprise had during this time 
kept him silent and inactive. He gazed alter¬ 
nately from one to another of those who stood 
around him, as if to seek some explanation of 
so strange an event. But the faces of all were 
as perplexed as his own ; even Hugh Crom- 
bie had assumed a look of speechless wonder, 
— speechless, because his imagination, prolific 
as it was, could not supply a plausible false¬ 
hood. 


87 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


“ Ellen, dearest child,** at length said the doc¬ 
tor, what is the meaning of this ? ** 

Ellen endeavored to reply ; but, as her com¬ 
posure was merely external, she was unable to 
render her words audible. Fanshawe spoke in 
a low voice to Dr. Melmoth, who appeared 
grateful for his advice. 

‘‘ True, it will be the better way,** he replied. 

My wits are utterly confounded, or I should 
not have remained thus long. Come, my dear 
child,** he continued, advancing to Ellen and 
taking her hand, let us return home, and de¬ 
fer the explanation till the morrow. There, 
there: only dry your eyes, and we will say no 
more about it.** 

And that will be your wisest way, old gen¬ 
tleman,** muttered Hugh Crombie. 

Ellen at first exhibited but little desire, or 
rather, an evident reluctance, to accompany her 
guardian. She hung back, while her glance 
passed almost imperceptibly over the faces that 
gazed so eagerly at her; but the one she sought 
was not visible among them. She had no alter¬ 
native, and suffered herself to be led from the 
inn. 

Edward Walcott alone remained behind, the 
most wretched being (at least such was his own 
opinion) that breathed the vital air. He felt a 
sinking and sickness of the heart, and alternately 
a feverish frenzy, neither of which his short and 
88 


FANSHAWE 


cloudless existence had heretofore occasioned 
him to experience. He was jealous of, he knew 
not whom, and he knew not what. He was un¬ 
generous enough to believe that Ellen — his 
pure and lovely Ellen — had degraded herself; 
though from what motive, or by whose agency, 
he could not conjecture. When Dr. Melmoth 
had taken her in charge, Edward returned to the 
apartment where he had spent the evening. The 
wine was still upon the table ; and, in the de¬ 
sperate hope of stupefying his faculties, he un¬ 
wisely swallowed huge successive draughts. The 
effect of his imprudence was not long in mani¬ 
festing itself; though insensibility, which at an¬ 
other time would have been the result, did not 
now follow. Acting upon his previous agitation, 
the wine seemed to set his blood in a flame ; 
and, for the time being, he was a perfect mad¬ 
man. 

A phrenologist would probably have found 
the organ of destructiveness in strong develop¬ 
ment, just then, upon Edward's cranium ; for 
he certainly manifested an impulse to break and 
destroy whatever chanced to be within his reach. 
He commenced his operations by upsetting the 
table, and breaking the bottles and glasses. 
Then, seizing a tall heavy chair in each hand, 
he hurled them with prodigious force, — one 
through the window, and the other against a 
large looking-glass, the most valuable article of 
89 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


furniture in Hugh Crombie's inn. The crash 
and clatter of these outrageous proceedings soon 
brought the master, mistress, and maid servant 
to the scene of action ; but the two latter, at the 
first sight of Edward's wild demeanor and gleam¬ 
ing eyes, retreated with all imaginable expedi¬ 
tion. Hugh chose a position behind the door, 
from whence, protruding his head, he endeavored 
to mollify his inebriated guest. His interference, 
however, had nearly been productive of most 
unfortunate consequences ; for a massive and¬ 
iron, with round brazen head, whizzed past him, 
within a hair's breadth of his ear. 

I might as safely take my chance in a bat¬ 
tle!" exclaimed Hugh, withdrawing his head, and 
speaking to a man who stood in the passageway. 

A little twist of his hand to the left would 
have served my turn as well as if I stood in the 
path of a forty-two pound ball. And here comes 
another broadside," he added, as some other 
article of furniture rattled against the door. 

Let us return his fire, Hugh," said the per¬ 
son whom he addressed, composedly lifting the 
andiron. He is in want of ammunition: let us 
send him back his own." 

The sound of this man's voice produced a 
most singular effect upon Edward. The mo¬ 
ment before, his actions had been those of a rav¬ 
ing maniac ; but, when the words struck his ear, 
he paused, put his hand to his forehead, seemed 
90 


FANSHAWE 


to recollect himself, and finally advanced with a 
firm and steady step. His countenance was dark 
and angry, but no longer wild. 

“ I have found you, villain ! ” he said to the 
angler. It is you who have done this.” 

“ And, having done it, the wrath of a boy — 
his drunken wrath — will not induce me to deny 
it,” replied the other scornfully. 

The boy will require a man's satisfaction,” 
returned Edward, and that speedily.” 

Will you take it now? ” inquired the angler, 
with a cool, derisive smile, and almost in a whis¬ 
per. At the same time he produced a brace of 
pistols, and held them towards the young man. 

‘‘ Willingly,” answered Edward, taking one 
of the weapons. Choose your distance.” 

The angler stepped back a pace ; but before 
their deadly intentions, so suddenly conceived, 
could be executed, Hugh Crombie interposed 
himself between them. 

‘‘Do you take my best parlor for the cabin of 
the Black Andrew, where a pistol shot was a 
nightly pastime ? ” he inquired of his comrade. 
“ And you. Master Edward, with what sort of 
a face will you walk into the chapel to morning 
prayers, after putting a ball through this man's 
head, or receiving one through your own ? 
Though, in this last case, you will be past pray¬ 
ing for, or praying either.” 

“ Stand aside ; I will take the risk. Make 

91 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


way, or I will put the ball through your own 
head ! ’’ exclaimed Edward fiercely; for the inter¬ 
val of rationality that circumstances had pro¬ 
duced was again giving way to intoxication. 

“ You see how it is,” said Hugh to his com¬ 
panion, unheard by Edward. You shall take 
a shot at me sooner than at the poor lad in his 
present state. You have done him harm enough 
already, and intend him more. I propose,” he 
continued aloud, and with a peculiar glance 
towards the angler, “that this affair be decided 
to-morrow, at nine o'clock, under the old oak, 
on the bank of the stream. In the meantime, 
I will take charge of these popguns, for fear of 
accidents.” 

“Well, mine host, be it as you wish,” said 
his comrade. “ A shot more or less is of little 
consequence to me.” He accordinglv delivered 
his weapon to Hugh Crombie, and walked care¬ 
lessly away. 

“ Come, Master Walcott, the enemy has re¬ 
treated. Victoria! And now, I see, the sooner 
I get you to your chamber, the better,” added 
he aside ; for the wine was at last beginning to 
produce its legitimate effect, in stupehdng the 
young man's mental and bodily facHties. 

Hugh Crombie's assistance, though not, per¬ 
haps, quite indispensable, was certainly ver^' con¬ 
venient to our unfortunate hero, in the course 
of the short walk that brought him to his cham- 
92 


FANSHAWE 


ber. When arrived there, and in bed, he was 
soon locked in a sleep scarcely less deep than 
that of death. 

The weather, during the last hour, had ap¬ 
peared to be on the point of changing; indeed, 
there were, every few minutes, most rapid 
changes. A strong breeze sometimes drove the 
clouds from the brow of heaven, so as to disclose 
a few of the stars ; but, immediately after, the 
darkness would again become Egyptian, and the 
rain rush like a torrent from the sky. 

93 


CHAPTER VI 


“ About her neck a packet-mail 

Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale. 

Of men that walked when they were dead.” 

Hudibras. 

S CARCELY a word had passed between 
Dr. Melmothand Ellen Langton,on their 
way home; for, though the former was 
aware that his duty towards his ward would com¬ 
pel him to inquire into the motives of her con¬ 
duct, the tenderness of his heart prompted him 
to defer the scrutiny to the latest moment. The 
same tenderness induced him to connive at El¬ 
len's stealing secretly up to her chamber, unseen 
by Mrs. Melmoth; to render which measure 
practicable, he opened the house door very 
softly, and stood before his half-sleeping spouse 
(who waited his arrival in the parlor) without any 
previous notice. This act of the doctor’s be¬ 
nevolence was not destitute of heroism ; for he 
was well assured that, should the affair come to 
the lady’s knowledge through any other channel, 
her vengeance would descend not less heavily 
on him for concealing than on Ellen for perpe¬ 
trating the elopement. That she had, thus far, 
94 


FANSHAWE 


no suspicion of the fact was evident from her 
composure, as well as from the reply to a ques¬ 
tion which, with more than his usual art, her 
husband put to her respecting the non-appear¬ 
ance of his ward. Mrs. Melmoth answered, 
that Ellen had complained of indisposition, and 
after drinking, by her prescription, a large cup 
of herb tea, had retired to her chamber early in 
the evening. Thankful that all was yet safe, the 
doctor laid his head upon his pillow ; but, late 
as was the hour, his many anxious thoughts long 
drove sleep from his eyelids. 

The diminution in the quantity of his natural 
rest did not, however, prevent Dr. Melmoth 
from rising at his usual hour, which at all sea¬ 
sons of the year was an early one. He found, 
on descending to the parlor, that breakfast was 
nearly in readiness ; for the lady of the house 
(and, as a corollary, her servant girl) was not 
accustomed to await the rising of the sun in 
order to commence her domestic labors. Ellen 
Langton, however, who had heretofore assimi¬ 
lated her habits to those of the family, was this 
morning invisible, — a circumstance imputed by 
Mrs. Melmoth to her indisposition of the pre¬ 
ceding evening, and by the doctor to mortifica¬ 
tion on account of her elopement and its dis¬ 
covery. 

“I think I will step into Ellen’s bedcham- 
95 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


ber/’ said Mrs. Melmoth, ‘‘ and inquire how 
she feels herself. The morning is delightful 
after the storm, and the air will do her good.” 

“ Had we not better proceed with our break¬ 
fast ? If the poor child is sleeping, it were a 
pity to disturb her,” observed the doctor ; for, 
besides his sympathy with Ellen’s feelings, he 
was reluctant, as if he were the guilty one, to 
meet her face. 

Well, be it so. And now sit down, doctor; 
for the hot cakes are cooling fast. I suppose 
you will say they are not so good as those Ellen 
made yesterday morning. I know not how 
you will bear to part with her, though the thing 
must soon be.” 

“It will be a sore trial, doubtless,” replied 
Dr. Melmoth, — “ like tearing away a branch 
that is grafted on an old tree. And yet there 
will be a satisfaction in delivering her safe into 
her father’s hands.” 

“ A satisfaction for which you may thank me, 
doctor,” observed the lady. “ If there had been 
none but you to look after the poor thing’s 
doings, she would have been enticed away long 
ere this, for the sake of her money.” 

Dr. Melmoth’s prudence could scarcely re¬ 
strain a smile at the thought that an elopement, 
as he had reason to believe, had been plotted, 
and partly carried into execution, while Ellen 
was under the sole care of his lady, and had been 
96 


FANSHAWE 


frustrated only by his own despised agency. He 
was not accustomed, however, — nor was this 
an eligible occasion, — to dispute any of Mrs. 
Melmoth’s claims to superior wisdom. 

The breakfast proceeded In silence, or, at 
least, without any conversation material to the 
tale. At its conclusion, Mrs. Melmoth was 
again meditating on the propriety of entering 
Ellen’s chamber; but she was now prevented 
by an Incident that always excited much inter¬ 
est both In herself and her husband. 

This was the entrance of the servant, bearing 
the letters and newspaper, with which, once a 
fortnight, the mail carrier journeyed up the val¬ 
ley. Dr. Melmoth’s situation at the head of 
a respectable seminary, and his character as a 
scholar, had procured him an extensive corre¬ 
spondence among the learned men of his own 
country; and he had even exchanged epistles 
with one or two of the most distinguished dis¬ 
senting clergymen of Great Britain. But, unless 
when some fond mother enclosed a one-pound 
note to defray the private expenses of her son 
at college, it was frequently the case that the 
packets addressed to the doctor were the sole 
contents of the mail bag. In the present in¬ 
stance, his letters were very numerous, and, to 
judge from the one he chanced first to open, 
of an unconscionable length. While he was en¬ 
gaged in their perusal, Mrs. Melmoth amused 
97 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


herself with the newspaper, — a little sheet of 
about twelve inches square, which had but one 
rival in the country. Commencing with the 
title, she labored on through advertisements old 
and new, through poetry lamentably deficient 
in rhythm and rhymes, through essays, the 
ideas of which had been trite since the first week 
of the creation, till she finally arrived at the de¬ 
partment that, a fortnight before, had contained 
the latest news from all quarters. Making such 
remarks upon these items as to her seemed 
good, the dame's notice was at length attracted 
by an article which her sudden exclamation 
proved to possess uncommon interest. Casting 
her eye hastily over it, she immediately began 
to read aloud to her husband; but he, deeply 
engaged in a long and learned letter, instead of 
listening to what she wished to communicate, 
exerted his own lungs in opposition to hers, as 
is the custom of abstracted men when disturbed. 
The result was as follows : — 

A brig just arrived in the outer harbor,” be¬ 
gan Mrs. Melmoth, ‘‘ reports, that on the morn¬ 
ing of the 25 th ult.” — Here the doctor broke 
in, Wherefore I am compelled to differ from 
your exposition of the said passage, for those 
reasons, of the which I have given you a taste ; 
provided ” — The lady's voice was now almost 
audible — “ ship bottom upward, discovered by 
the name on her stern to be the Ellen of” — 
98 


FANSHAWE 


and in the same opinion are Hooker, Cotton, 
and divers learned divines of a later date.” 

The doctor’s lungs were deep and strong, and 
victory seemed to incline toward him ; but Mrs. 
Melmoth now made use of a tone whose pecul¬ 
iar shrillness, as long experience had taught her 
husband, augured a mood of mind not to be 
trifled with. 

On my word, doctor,” she exclaimed, ‘‘ this 
is most unfeeling and unchristian conduct! 
Here am I endeavoring to inform you of the 
death of an old friend, and you continue as deaf 
as a post.” 

Dr. Melmoth, who had heard the sound, 
without receiving the sense, of these words, now 
laid aside the letter in despair, and submissively 
requested to be informed of her pleasure. 

There, read for yourself,” she replied, hand¬ 
ing him the paper, and pointing to the passage 
containing the important intelligence, — ‘‘ read, 
and then finish your letter, if you have a mind.” 

He took the paper, unable to conjecture how 
the dame could be so much interested in any 
part of its contents; but, before he had read 
many words, he grew pale as death. “ Good 
heavens! what is this?” he exclaimed. He 
then read on — ‘‘ being the vessel wherein that 
eminent son of New England, John Langton, 
Esq., had taken passage for his native country, 
after an absence of many years.” 

99 


L.or C. 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Our poor Ellen, his orphan child I ” said 
Dr. Melmoth, dropping the paper. “ How 
shall we break the intelligence to her ? Alas ! 
her share of the affliction causes me to forget 
my own.'’ 

It is a heavy misfortune, doubtless; and 
Ellen will grieve as a daughter should," replied 
Mrs. Melmoth, speaking with the good sense 
of which she had a competent share. “ But she 
has never known her father; and her sorrow 
must arise from a sense of duty more than from 
strong affection. I will go and inform her of 
her loss. It is late, and I wonder if she be 
still asleep." 

Be cautious, dearest wife," said the doctor. 

Ellen has strong feelings, and a sudden shock 
might be dangerous." 

I think I may be trusted. Dr. Melmoth," 
replied the lady, who had a high opinion of her 
own abilities as a comforter, and was not averse 
to exercise them. 

Her husband, after her departure, sat listlessly 
turning over the letters that yet remained un¬ 
opened, feeling little curiosity, after such mel¬ 
ancholy intelligence, respecting their contents. 
But, by the handwriting of the direction on one 
of them, his attention was gradually arrested, 
till he found himself gazing earnestly on those 
strong, firm, regular characters. They were 
perfectly familiar to his eye; but from what hand 
100 


FANSHAWE 


they came he could not conjecture. Suddenly, 
however, the truth burst upon him; and, after 
noticing the date and reading a few lines, he 
rushed hastily in pursuit of his wife. 

He had arrived at the top of his speed and at 
the middle of the staircase, when his course was 
arrested by the lady whom he sought, who came, 
with a velocity equal to his own, in an opposite 
direction. The consequence was a concussion 
between the two meeting masses, by which Mrs. 
Melmoth was seated securely on the stairs, 
while the doctor was only preserved from pre¬ 
cipitation to the bottom by clinging desperately 
to the balustrade. As soon as the pair discov¬ 
ered that they had sustained no material injury 
by their contact, they began eagerly to explain 
the cause of their mutual haste, without those 
reproaches, which, on the lady's part, would 
at another time have followed such an acci¬ 
dent. 

You have not told her the bad news, I 
trust ^ " cried Dr. Melmoth, after each had com¬ 
municated his and her intelligence, without ob¬ 
taining audience of the other. 

‘‘Would you have me tell it to the bare 
walls ? ” inquired the lady, in her shrillest tone. 
“ Have I not just informed you that she has 
gone, fled, eloped ? Her chamber is empty, and 
her bed has not been occupied." 

“ Gone! " repeated the doctor. “ And, when 

lOI 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


her father comes to demand his daughter of me, 
what answer shall I make ? 

Now, Heaven defend us from the visits of 
the dead and drowned ! cried Mrs. Melmoth. 
“ This is a serious affair, doctor, but not, I trust, 
sufficient to raise a ghost.” 

“ Mr. Langton is yet no ghost,” answered 
he; “ though this event will go near to make 
him one. He was fortunately prevented, after 
he had made every preparation, from taking 
passage in the vessel that was lost.” 

And where is he now?” she inquired. 

‘‘ He is in New England. Perhaps he is at 
this moment on his way to us,” replied her hus¬ 
band. ‘‘ His letter is dated nearly a fortnight 
back; and he expresses an intention of being 
with us in a few days.” 

‘‘Well, I thank Heaven for his safety,” said 
Mrs. Melmoth. “ But truly the poor gentle¬ 
man could not have chosen a better time to be 
drowned, nor a worse one to come to life, than 
this. What we shall do, doctor, I know not; 
but had you locked the doors and fastened the 
windows, as I advised, the misfortune could not 
have happened.” 

“ Why, the whole country would have flouted 
us ! ” answered the doctor. “ Is there a door 
in all the Province that is barred or bolted, night 
or day? Nevertheless, it might have been ad¬ 
visable last night, had it occurred to me.” 

102 


FANSHAWE 


And why at that time more than at all 
times ? ’’ she inquired. “We had surely no 
reason to fear this event.” 

Dr. Melmoth was silent; for his worldly wis¬ 
dom was sufficient to deter him from giving his 
lady the opportunity, which she would not fail 
to use to the utmost, of laying the blame of the 
elopement at his door. He now proceeded, with 
a heavy heart, to Ellen’s chamber, to satisfy him¬ 
self with his own eyes of the state of affairs. It 
was deserted too truly ; and the wild flowers with 
which it was the maiden’s custom daily to deco¬ 
rate her premises were drooping, as if in sorrow 
for her who had placed them there. Mrs. Mel¬ 
moth, on this second visit, discovered on the 
table a note addressed to her husband, and con¬ 
taining a few words of gratitude from Ellen, but 
no explanation of her mysterious flight. The 
doctor gazed long on the tiny letters, which had 
evidently been traced with a trembling hand, 
and blotted with many tears. 

“ There is a mystery in this, — a mystery 
that I cannot fathom,” he said. “ And now I 
would I knew what measures it would be proper 
to take.” 

“ Get you on horseback. Dr. Melmoth, and 
proceed as speedily as may be down the valley 
to the town,” said the dame, the influence of 
whose firmer mind was sometimes, as in the 
present case, most beneficially exerted over his 
103 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


own. “ You must not spare for trouble, — no, 
nor for danger. Now — O, if I were a man! 

“ O that you were! ’’ murmured the doctor, 
in a perfectly inaudible voice. Well — and 
when I reach the town, what then ? 

As I am a Christian woman, my patience 
cannot endure you! ” exclaimed Mrs. Mel- 
moth. “ O, I love to see a man with the spirit 
of a man ! but you ’’ — And she turned away 
in utter scorn. 

But, dearest wife,** remonstrated the hus¬ 
band, who was really at a loss how to proceed, 
and anxious for her advice, “ your worldly ex¬ 
perience is greater than mine, and I desire to 
profit by it. What should be my next measure 
after arriving at the town ? ** 

Mrs. Melmoth was appeased by the submis¬ 
sion with which the doctor asked her counsel; 
though, if the truth must be told, she heartily 
despised him for needing it. She condescended, 
however, to instruct him in the proper method 
of pursuing the runaway maiden, and directed 
him, before his departure, to put strict inquiries 
to Hugh Crombie respecting any stranger who 
might lately have visited his inn. That there 
would be wisdom in this Dr. Melmoth had his 
own reasons for believing ; and still, without im¬ 
parting them to his lady, he proceeded to do as 
he had been bid. 

The veracious landlord acknowleged that a 
104 


FANSHAWE 


stranger had spent a night and day at his inn, 
and was missing that morning; but he utterly 
denied all acquaintance with his character, or 
privity to his purposes. Had Mrs. Melmoth, 
instead of her husband, conducted the examina¬ 
tion, the result might have been different. As 
the case was, the doctor returned to his dwelling 
but little wiser than he went forth ; and, order¬ 
ing his steed to be saddled, he began a journey 
of which he knew not what would be the end. 

In the meantime, the intelligence of Ellen's 
disappearance circulated rapidly, and soon sent 
forth hunters more fit to follow the chase than 
Dr. Melmoth. 


105 


CHAPTER VII 


“ There was racing and chasing o’er Cannobie Lee.” 

Walter Scott. 

W HEN Edward Walcott awoke the next 
morning from his deep slumber, his 
first consciousness was of a heavy 
weight upon his mind, the cause of which he 
was unable immediately to recollect. One by 
one, however, by means of the association of 
ideas, the events of the preceding night came 
back to his memory; though those of latest 
occurrence were dim as dreams. But one cir¬ 
cumstance was only too well remembered,— 
the discovery of Ellen Langton. By a strong 
effort he next attained to an uncertain recollec¬ 
tion of a scene of madness and violence, followed, 
as he at first thought, by a duel. A little further 
reflection, however, informed him that this event 
was yet among the things of futurity; but he 
could by no means recall the appointed time or 
place. As he had not the slightest intention 
(praiseworthy and prudent as it would unques¬ 
tionably have been) to give up the chance of 
avenging Ellen’s wrongs and his own, he im¬ 
mediately arose, and began to dress, meaning to 
learn from Hugh Crombie those particulars 
io6 


FANSHAWE 


which his own memory had not retained. His 
chief apprehension was, that the appointed time 
had already elapsed ; for the early sunbeams of 
a glorious morning were now peeping into his 
chamber. 

More than once, during the progress of dress¬ 
ing, he was inclined to believe that the duel had 
actually taken place, and been fatal to him, and 
that he was now in those regions to which, his 
conscience told him, such an event would be 
likely to send him. This idea resulted from 
his bodily sensations, which were in the highest 
degree uncomfortable. He was tormented by 
a raging thirst, that seemed to have absorbed all 
the moisture of his throat and stomach ; and, in 
his present agitation, a cup of icy water would 
have been his first wish, had all the treasures of 
earth and sea been at his command. His head, 
too, throbbed almost to bursting; and the whirl 
of his brain at every movement promised little 
accuracy in the aim of his pistol, when he should 
meet the angler. These feelings, together with 
the deep degradation of his mind, made him 
resolve that no circumstances should again draw 
him into an excess of wine. In the meantime, 
his head was, perhaps, still too much confused 
to allow him fully to realize his unpleasant sit¬ 
uation. 

Before Edward was prepared to leave his 
chamber, the door was opened by one of the 
107 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


college bedmakers, who, perceiving that he was 
nearly dressed, entered, and began to set the 
apartment in order. There were two of these 
officials pertaining to Harley College, each of 
them being (and, for obvious reasons, this was 
an indispensable qualification) a model of per¬ 
fect ugliness in her own way. One was a tall, 
raw-boned, huge-jointed, double-fisted giantess, 
admirably fitted to sustain the part of Glum- 
dalia, in the tragedy of Tom Thumb. Her fea¬ 
tures were as excellent as her form, appearing to 
have been rough-hewn with a broadaxe, and left 
unpolished. The other was a short, squat fig¬ 
ure, about two thirds the height, and three times 
the circumference, of ordinary females. Her 
hair was gray, her complexion of a deep yellow ; 
and her most remarkable feature was a short 
snub nose, just discernible amid the broad im¬ 
mensity of her face. This latter lady was she 
who now entered Edward's chamber. Notwith¬ 
standing her deficiency in personal attractions, 
she was rather a favorite of the students, being 
good-natured, anxious for their comfort, and, 
when duly encouraged, very communicative. 
Edward perceived, as soon as she appeared, that 
she only waited his assistance in order to dis¬ 
burden herself of some extraordinary informa¬ 
tion ; and, more from compassion than curiosity, 
he began to question her. 

“Well, Dolly, what news this morning?" 
io8 


FANSHAWE 


“Why, let me see,— O yes! It had almost 
slipped my memory,” replied the bedmaker. 
“ Poor Widow Butler died last night, after her 
long sickness. Poor woman 1 I remember her 
forty years ago, or so, — as rosy a lass as you 
could set eyes on.” 

“ Ah I has she gone ? ” said Edward, recollect¬ 
ing the sick woman of the cottage which he had 
entered with Ellen and Fanshawe. “Was she 
not out of her right mind, Dolly ? ” 

“Yes, this seven years,” she answered. “ They 
say she came to her senses a bit, when Dr. Mel- 
moth visited her yesterday, but was raving mad 
when she died. Ah, that son of hers 1 — if he 
is yet alive. Well, well 1 ” 

“ She had a son, then ? ” inquired Edward. 

“ Yes, such as he was. The Lord preserve 
me from such a one ! ” said Dolly. “ It was 
thought he went off with Hugh Crombie, that 
keeps the tavern now. That was fifteen years 
ago.” 

“ And have they heard nothing of him since ? ” 
asked Edward. 

“Nothing good, — nothing good,” said the 
bedmaker. “ Stories did travel up the valley 
now and then ; but for five years there has been 
no word of him. They say Merchant Langton, 
Ellen's father, met him in foreign parts, and 
would have made a man of him; but there was 
too much of the wicked one in him for that. 

109 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Well, poor woman ! I wonder who 'll preach 
her funeral sermon ?" 

Dr. Melmoth, probably," observed the stu¬ 
dent. 

No, no! The doctor will never finish his 
journey in time. And who knows but his own 
funeral will be the end of it! " said Dolly, with 
a sagacious shake of her head. 

“ Dr. Melmoth gone a journey ! " repeated 
Edward. “ What do you mean ? For what pur¬ 
pose ?" 

‘‘For a good purpose enough, I may say,” 
replied she. “To search out Miss Ellen, that 
was run away with last night.” 

“In the Devil's name, woman, of what are 
you speaking?” shouted Edward, seizing the 
affrighted bedmaker forcibly by the arm. 

Poor Dolly had chosen this circuitous method 
of communicating her intelligence, because she 
was well aware that, if she first told of Ellen's 
flight, she should find no ear for her account of 
the Widow Butler's death. She had not calcu¬ 
lated, however, that the news would produce so 
violent an effect upon her auditor; and her voice 
faltered as she recounted what she knew of the 
affair. She had hardly concluded, before Edward 
— who, as she proceeded, had been making hasty 
preparations — rushed from his chamber, and 
took the way towards Hugh Crombie's inn. He 
had no difficulty in finding the landlord, who 
no 


FANSHAWE 


had already occupied his accustomed seat, and 
was smoking his accustomed pipe, under the 
elm-tree. 

“Well, Master Walcott, you have come to 
take a stomach reliever this morning, I sup¬ 
pose,'' said Hugh, taking the pipe from his 
mouth. “What shall it be?—a bumper of 
wine with an egg? or a glass of smooth, old, 
oily brandy, such as Dame Crombie and I keep 
for our own drinking ? Come, that will do it, 
I know." 

“ No, no! neither," replied Edward, shudder¬ 
ing involuntarily at the bare mention of wine 
and strong drink. “ You know well, Hugh 
Crombie, the errand on which I come." 

“Well, perhaps I do," said the landlord. 
“ You come to order me to saddle my best 
horse. You are for a ride, this fine morning." 

“True; and I must learn of you in what 
direction to turn my horse's head," replied 
Edward Walcott. 

“ I understand you," said Hugh, nodding 
and smiling. “ And now. Master Edward, I 
really have taken a strong liking to you; and, 
if you please to hearken to it, you shall have 
some of my best advice." 

“ Speak," said the young man, expecting to 
be told in what direction to pursue the chase. 

“ I advise you, then," continued Hugh Crom¬ 
bie, in a tone in which some real feeling min- 

III 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


gled with assumed carelessness, — I advise 
you to forget that you have ever known this 
girl, that she has ever existed; for she is as 
much lost to you as if she never had been born, 
or as if the grave had covered her. Come, 
come, man, toss off a quart of my old wine, and 
keep up a merry heart. This has been my way 
in many a heavier sorrow than ever you have 
felt: and you see I am alive and merry yet.” 
But Hugh’s merriment had failed him just as 
he was making his boast of it; for Edward saw 
a tear in the corner of his eye. 

Forget her ? Never, never ! ” said the stu¬ 
dent, while his heart sank within him at the 
hopelessness of pursuit which Hugh’s words 
implied. ‘‘ I will follow her to the ends of the 
earth.” 

“ Then so much the worse for you and for 
my poor nag, on whose back you shall be in 
three minutes,” rejoined the landlord. I have 
spoken to you as I would to my own son, if I 
had such an incumbrance.— Here, you raga¬ 
muffin ! saddle the gray, and lead him round to 
the door.” 

‘‘ The gray ? I will ride the black,” said Ed¬ 
ward. “ I know your best horse as well as you 
do yourself, Hugh.” 

There is no black horse in my stable. 1 
have parted with him to an old comrade of 
mine,” answered the landlord, with a wink of 

II2 


FANSHAWE 


acknowledgment to what he saw were Edward’s 
suspicions. ^'The gray is a stout nag, and will 
carry you a round pace, though not so fast as 
to bring you up with them you seek. I re¬ 
served him for you, and put Mr. Fanshawe off 
with the old white, on which I travelled hither¬ 
ward a year or two since.” 

“ Fanshawe ! Has he, then, the start of me ? ” 
asked Edward. 

‘‘He rode off about twenty minutes ago,” 
replied Hugh ; “ but you will overtake him 
within ten miles, at farthest. But, if mortal man 
could recover the girl, that fellow would do it, 
even if he had no better nag than a broomstick, 
like the witches of old times.” 

“ Did he obtain any information from you as 
to the course ? ” inquired the student. 

“ I could give him only this much,” said 
Hugh, pointing down the road in the direction 
of the town. “ My old comrade trusts no man 
further than is needful, and I ask no unneces¬ 
sary questions.” 

The hostler now led up to the door the horse 
which Edward was to ride. The young man 
mounted with all expedition; but, as he was 
about to apply the spurs, his thirst, which the 
bedmaker’s intelligence had caused him to for¬ 
get, returned most powerfully upon him. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Hugh, a mug of your 
sharpest cider! and let it be a large one ! ” he 

113 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

exclaimed. “ My tongue rattles in my mouth 
like ” — 

Like the bones in a dice box,” said the land¬ 
lord, finishing the comparison, and hastening to 
obey Edward's directions. Indeed, he rather 
exceeded them, by mingling with the juice of 
the apple a gill of his old brandy, which his own 
experience told him would at that time have a 
most desirable effect upon the young man's 
internal system. 

‘‘ It is powerful stuff, mine host; and I feel 
like a new man already,'' observed Edward, after 
draining the mug to the bottom. 

“ He is a fine lad, and sits his horse most gal¬ 
lantly,'' said Hugh Crombie to himself, as the 
student rode off. “ I heartily wish him success. 
I wish to Heaven my conscience had suffered 
me to betray the plot before it was too late. 
Well, well, a man must keep his mite of hon¬ 
esty.'' 

The morning was now one of the most bright 
and glorious that ever shone for mortals ; and, 
under other circumstances, Edward's bosom 
would have been as light, and his spirit would 
have sung as cheerfully, as one of the many 
birds that warbled around him. The raindrops 
of the preceding night hung like glittering dia¬ 
monds on every leaf of every tree, shaken, and 
rendered more brilliant, by occasional sighs of 
wind, that removed from the traveller the su- 
114 


FANSHAWE 


perfluous heat of an unclouded sun. In spite 
of the adventure, so mysterious and vexatious, 
in which he was engaged, Edward’s elastic spirit 
(assisted, perhaps, by the brandy he had unwit¬ 
tingly swallowed) rose higher as he rode on; 
and he soon found himself endeavoring to ac¬ 
commodate the tune of one of Hugh Crombie’s 
ballads to the motion of the horse. Nor did this 
reviving cheerfulness argue anything against his 
unwavering faith, and pure and fervent love for 
Ellen Langton. A sorrowful and repining dis¬ 
position is not the necessary accompaniment of a 
leal and loving heart; ” and Edward’s spirits 
were cheered, not by forgetfulness, but by hope, 
which would not permit him to doubt of the ul¬ 
timate success of his pursuit. The uncertainty 
itself, and the probable danger of the expedition, 
were not without their charm to a youthful and 
adventurous spirit. In fact, Edward would not 
have been altogether satisfied to recover the 
errant damsel, without first doing battle in her 
behalf. 

He had proceeded but a few miles before he 
came in sight of Fanshawe, who had been ac¬ 
commodated by the landlord with a horse much 
inferior to his own. The speed to which he had 
been put had almost exhausted the poor animal, 
whose best pace was now but little beyond a 
walk. Edward drew his bridle as he came up 
with Fanshawe. 

115 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


“ I have been anxious to apologize,” he said 
to him, ‘‘ for the hasty and unjust expressions 
of which I made use last evening. May I hope 
that, in consideration of my mental distraction 
and the causes of it, you will forget what has 

‘‘ I had already forgotten it,” replied Fan- 
shawe, freely offering his hand. “ I saw your 
disturbed state of feeling, and it would have been 
unjust both to you and to myself to remember 
the errors it occasioned.” 

“ A wild expedition this,” observed Edward, 
after shaking warmly the offered hand. Unless 
we obtain some further information at the town, 
we shall hardly know which way to continue the 
pursuit.” 

“We can scarcely fail, I think, of lighting 
upon some trace of them,” said Fanshawe. 
“ Their flight must have commenced after the 
storm subsided, which would give them but a 
few hours the start of us. May I beg,” he con¬ 
tinued, noticing the superior condition of his 
rivafs horse, “ that you will not attempt to ac¬ 
commodate your pace to mine ? ” 

Edward bowed, and rode on, wondering at the 
change which a few months had wrought in Fan- 
shawe's character. On this occasion, especially, 
the energy of his mind had communicated itself 
to his frame. The color was strong and high in 
his cheek, and his whole appearance was that of 

ii6 


FANSHAWE 


a gallant and manly youth, whom a lady might 
love, or a foe might fear. Edward had not been 
so slow as his mistress in discovering the stu¬ 
dent's affection; and he could not but acknow¬ 
ledge in his heart that he was a rival not to be 
despised, and might yet be a successful one, if, 
by his means, Ellen Langton were restored to her 
friends. This consideration caused him to spur 
forward with increased ardor; but all his speed 
could not divest him of the idea that Fanshawe 
would finally overtake him, and attain the object 
of their mutual pursuit. There was certainly no 
apparent ground for this imagination; for every 
step of his horse increased the advantage which 
Edward had gained, and he soon lost sight of 
his rival. 

Shortly after overtaking Fanshawe, the young 
man passed the lonely cottage formerly the resi¬ 
dence of the Widow Butler, who now lay dead 
within. He was at first inclined to alight, and 
make inquiries respecting the fugitives; for he 
observed through the windows the faces of sev¬ 
eral persons, whom curiosity, or some better feel¬ 
ing, had led to the house of mourning. Recol¬ 
lecting, however, that this portion of the road 
must have been passed by the angler and Ellen 
at too early an hour to attract notice, he forbore 
to waste time by a fruitless delay. 

Edward proceeded on his journey, meeting 
with no other noticeable event, till, arriving at 
117 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

the summit of a hill, he beheld, a few hundred 
yards before him, the Rev. Dr. Melmoth. The 
worthy president was toiling onward at a rate un¬ 
exampled in the history either of himself or his 
steed ; the excellence of the latter consisting in 
sure-footedness rather than rapidity. The rider 
looked round, seemingly in some apprehension 
at the sound of hoof-tramps behind him, but was 
unable to conceal his satisfaction on recognizing 
Edward Walcott. 

In the whole course of his life. Dr. Melmoth 
had never been placed in circumstances so em¬ 
barrassing as the present. He was altogether a 
child in the ways of the world, having spent his 
youth and early manhood in abstracted study, 
and his maturity in the solitude of these hills. 
The expedition, therefore, on which fate had now 
thrust him, was an entire deviation from the quiet 
pathway of all his former years; and he felt like 
one who sets forth over the broad ocean without 
chart or compass. The affair would undoubt¬ 
edly have been perplexing to a man of far more 
experience than he; but the doctor pictured to 
himself a thousand difficulties and dangers, 
which, except in his imagination, had no exist¬ 
ence. The perturbation of his spirit had com¬ 
pelled him, more than once since his departure, 
to regret that he had not invited Mrs. Melmoth 
to a share in the adventure ; this being an occa¬ 
sion where her firmness, decision, and confident 

ii8 


FANSHAWE 


sagacity — which made her a sort of domestic 
hedgehog — would have been peculiarly appro¬ 
priate. In the absence of such a counsellor, 
even Edward Walcott—young as he was, and 
indiscreet as the doctor thought him — was a 
substitute not to be despised ; and it was singu¬ 
lar and rather ludicrous to observe how the gray¬ 
haired man unconsciously became as a child to 
the beardless youth. He addressed Edward 
with an assumption of dignity, through which 
his pleasure at the meeting was very obvious. 

“ Young gentleman, this is not well,*’ he said. 
“ By what authority have you absented yourself 
from the walls of Alma Mater during term 
time ? ” , 

“ 1 conceived that it was unnecessary to ask 
leave at such a conjuncture, and when the head 
of the institution was himself in the saddle,” 
replied Edward. 

“It was a fault, it was a fault,” said Dr. Mel- 
moth, shaking his head; “ but, in consideration 
of the motive, I may pass it over. And now, 
my dear Edward, I advise that we continue our 
journey together, as your youth and inexperience 
will stand in need of the wisdom of my gray 
head. Nay, I pray you lay not the lash to your 
steed. You have ridden fast and far; and a 
slower pace is requisite for a season.” 

And, in order to keep up with his young com¬ 
panion, the doctor smote his own gray nag; 

119 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


which unhappy beast, wondering what strange 
concatenation of events had procured him such 
treatment, endeavored to obey his master’s 
wishes. Edward had sufficient compassion for 
Dr. Melmoth (especially as his own horse now 
exhibited signs of weariness) to moderate his 
pace to one attainable by the former. 

Alas, youth ! these are strange times,” ob¬ 
served the president, ‘‘ when a doctor of divinity 
and an undergraduate set forth, like a knight- 
errant and his squire, in search of a stray damsel. 
Methinks I am an epitome of the church mil¬ 
itant, or a new species of polemical divinity. 
Pray Heaven, however, there be no encounter 
in store for us; for I utterly forgot to provide 
myself with weapons.” 

‘‘ I took some thought for that matter, re¬ 
verend knight,” replied Edward, whose imagina¬ 
tion was highly tickled by Dr. Melmoth’s chiv¬ 
alrous comparison. 

“ Ay, I see that you have girded on a sword,” 
said the divine. ‘‘ But wherewith shall I defend 
myself, my hand being empty, except of this 
golden-headed staff, the gift of Mr. Langton ? ” 

“ One of these, if you will accept it,” an¬ 
swered Edward, exhibiting a brace of pistols, 
“ will serve to begin the conflict, before you join 
the battle hand to hand.” 

“Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling 
with that deadly instrument, since I know not 
120 


FANSHAWE 


accurately from which end proceeds the bullet/* 
said Dr. Melmoth. But were it not better, 
seeing we are so well provided with artillery, to 
betake ourselves, in the event of an encounter, 
to some stone wall or other place of strength ? ” 
‘‘ If I may presume to advise,” said the squire, 
you, as being most valiant and experienced, 
should ride forward, lance in hand (your long 
staff serving for a lance), while I annoy the 
enemy from afar.” 

‘‘ Like Teucer behind the shield of Ajax,” 
interrupted Dr. Melmoth, or David with his 
stone and sling. No, no, young man ! I have 
left unfinished in my study a learned treatise, 
important not only to the present age, but to 
posterity, for whose sakes I must take heed to 
my safety. — But, lo ! who ride yonder ? ” he 
exclaimed, in manifest alarm, pointing to some 
horsemen upon the brow of a hill at a short 
distance before them. 

Fear not, gallant leader,” said Edward Wal¬ 
cott, who had already discovered the objects of 
the doctor’s terror. ‘‘ They are men of peace, 
as we shall shortly see. The foremost is some¬ 
where near your own years, and rides like a 
grave, substantial citizen, — though what he 
does here I know not. Behind come two ser¬ 
vants, men likewise of sober age and pacific 
appearance.” 

“ Truly your eyes are better than mine own. 

I2I 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Of a verity, you are in the right,’* acquiesced 
Dr. Melmoth, recovering his usual quantum 
of intrepidity. “We will ride forward coura¬ 
geously, as those who, in a just cause, fear nei¬ 
ther death nor bonds.” 

The reverend knight-errant and his squire, 
at the time of discovering the three horsemen, 
were within a very short distance of the town, 
which was, however, concealed from their view 
by the hill that the strangers were descending. 
The road from Harley College, through almost 
its whole extent, had been rough and wild, and 
the country thin of population; but now, stand¬ 
ing frequent, amid fertile fields on each side of 
the way, were neat little cottages, from which 
groups of white-headed children rushed forth 
to gaze upon the travellers. The three stran¬ 
gers, as well as the doctor and Edward, were 
surrounded, as they approached each other, by 
a crowd of this kind, plying their little bare legs 
most pertinaciously in order to keep pace with 
the horses. 

As Edward gained a nearer view of the fore¬ 
most rider, his grave aspect and stately de¬ 
meanor struck him with involuntary respect. 
There were deep lines of thought across his 
brow; and his calm yet bright gray eye beto¬ 
kened a steadfast soul. There was also an air 
of conscious importance, even in the manner in 
which the stranger sat his horse, which a man’s 
122 


FANSHAWE 


good opinion of himself, unassisted by the con¬ 
currence of the world in general, seldom be¬ 
stows. The two servants rode at a respectable 
distance in the rear; and the heavy portman¬ 
teaus at their backs intimated that the party 
had journeyed from afar. Dr. Melmoth endea¬ 
vored to assume the dignity that became him as 
the head of Harley College; and, with a gentle 
stroke of his staff upon his wearied steed and a 
grave nod to the principal stranger, was about 
to commence the ascent of the hill at the foot 
of which they were. The gentleman, however, 
made a halt. 

“ Dr. Melmoth, am I so fortunate as to meet 
you ? he exclaimed, in accents expressive of as 
much surprise and pleasure as were consistent 
with his staid demeanor. “ Have you, then, 
forgotten your old friend ? 

‘‘ Mr. Langton! Can it be ? ** said the doc¬ 
tor, after looking him in the face a moment. 
“Yes, it is my old friend indeed : welcome, wel¬ 
come ! though you come at an unfortunate 
time.” 

“ What say you ? How is my child ? Ellen, 
I trust, is well ? ” cried Mr. Langton, a father’s 
anxiety overcoming the coldness and reserve 
that were natural to him, or that long habit had 
made a second nature. 

“ She is well in health. She was so, at least, 
last night,” replied Dr. Melmoth, unable to 
123 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


meet the eye of his friend. But — but I have 
been a careless shepherd ; and the lamb has 
strayed from the fold while I slept.'* 

Edward Walcott, who was a deeply interested 
observer of this scene, had anticipated that a 
burst of passionate grief would follow the dis¬ 
closure. He was, however, altogether mistaken. 
There was a momentary convulsion of Mr. 
Langton's strong features, as quick to come and 
go as a flash of lightning; and then his coun¬ 
tenance was as composed — though, perhaps, a 
little sterner — as before. He seemed about to 
inquire into the particulars of what so nearly 
concerned him, but changed his purpose on 
observing the crowd of children, who, with one 
or two of their parents, were endeavoring to 
catch the words that passed between the doctor 
and himself. 

“ I will turn back with you to the village," 
he said, in a steady voice; and at your leisure 
I shall desire to hear the particulars of this un¬ 
fortunate affair." 

He wheeled his horse, accordingly, and, side 
by side with Dr. Melmoth, began to ascend the 
hill. On reaching the summit, the little coun¬ 
try town lay before them, presenting a cheerful 
and busy spectacle. It consisted of one long, 
regular street, extending parallel to, and at a 
short distance from, the river; which here, 
enlarged by a junction with another stream, 
124 


FANSHAWE 


became navigable, — not indeed for vessels of 
burden, but for rafts of lumber and boats of 
considerable size. The houses, with peaked 
roofs and jutting stories, stood at wide intervals 
along the street; and the commercial character 
of the place was manifested by the shop door 
and windows that occupied the front of almost 
every dwelling. One or two mansions, how¬ 
ever, surrounded by trees, and standing back 
at a haughty distance from the road, were evi¬ 
dently the abodes of the aristocracy of the vil¬ 
lage. It was not difficult to distinguish the 
owners of these — self-important personages, 
with canes and well-powdered periwigs — among 
the crowd of meaner men who bestowed their 
attention upon Dr. Melmoth and his friend as 
they rode by. The town being the nearest mart 
of a large extent of back country, there were 
many rough farmers and woodsmen, to whom 
the cavalcade was an object of curiosity and ad¬ 
miration. The former feeling, indeed, was gen¬ 
eral throughout the village. The shopkeepers 
left their customers, and looked forth from the 
doors ; the female portion of the community 
thrust their heads from the windows; and the 
people in the street formed a lane through 
which, with all eyes concentrated upon them, 
the party rode onward to the tavern. The gen¬ 
eral aptitude that pervades the populace of a 
small country town to meddle with affairs not 
125 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


legitimately concerning them was increased, on 
this occasion, by the sudden return of Mr. 
Langton after passing through the village. 
Many conjectures were afloat respecting the 
cause of this retrograde movement; and, by de¬ 
grees, something like the truth, though much 
distorted, spread generally among the crowd, 
communicated, probably, from Mr. Langton's 
servants. Edward Walcott, incensed at the 
uncourteous curiosity of which he, as well as 
his companions, was the object, felt a frequent 
impulse (though, fortunately for himself, re¬ 
sisted) to make use of his riding switch in clear¬ 
ing a passage. 

On arriving at the tavern. Dr. Melmoth re¬ 
counted to his friend the little he knew beyond 
the bare fact of Ellen’s disappearance. Had 
Edward Walcott been called to their conference, 
he might, by disclosing the adventure of the 
angler, have thrown a portion of light upon the 
affair; but, since his first introduction, the cold 
and stately merchant had honored him with no 
sort of notice. 

Edward, on his part, was not well pleased at 
the sudden appearance of Ellen’s father, and was 
little inclined to cooperate in any measures that 
he might adopt for her recovery. It was his 
wish to pursue the chase on his own respon¬ 
sibility, and as his own wisdom dictated: he 
chose to be an independent ally, rather than a 
126 


FANSHAWE 


subordinate assistant. But, as a step prelimi¬ 
nary to his proceedings of every other kind, he 
found it absolutely necessary, having journeyed 
far, and fasting, to call upon the landlord for 
a supply of food. The viands that were set 
before him were homely, but abundant; nor 
were Edward’s griefs and perplexities so absorb¬ 
ing as to overcome the appetite of youth and 
health. 

Dr. Melmoth and Mr. Langton, after a short 
private conversation, had summoned the land¬ 
lord, in the hope of obtaining some clue to the 
development of the mystery. But no young 
lady, nor any stranger answering to the descrip¬ 
tion the doctor had received from Hugh Crom- 
bie (which was indeed a false one), had been seen 
to pass through the village since daybreak. 
Here, therefore, the friends were entirely at a 
loss in what direction to continue the pursuit. 
The village was the focus of several roads, diver¬ 
ging to widely distant portions of the country ; 
and which of these the fugitives had taken, it was 
impossible to determine. One point, however, 
might be considered certain, — that the village 
was the first stage of their flight; for it com¬ 
manded the only outlet from the valley, except 
a rugged path among the hills, utterly impassa¬ 
ble by horse. In this dilemma, expresses were 
sent by each of the different roads; and poor 
Ellen’s imprudence — the tale nowise decreas- 
127 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


ing as it rolled along — became known to a wide 
extent of country. Having thus done every¬ 
thing in his power to recover his daughter, the 
merchant exhibited a composure which Dr. 
Melmoth admired, but could not equal. His 
own mind, however, was in a far more comfort¬ 
able state than when the responsibility of the 
pursuit had rested upon himself. 

Edward Walcott, in the meantime, had em¬ 
ployed but a very few moments in satisfying 
his hunger; after which his active intellect al¬ 
ternately formed and relinquished a thousand 
plans for the recovery of Ellen. Fanshawe’s 
observation, that her flight must have com¬ 
menced after the subsiding of the storm, re¬ 
curred to him. On inquiry, he was informed 
that the violence of the rain had continued, with 
a few momentary intermissions, till near day¬ 
light. The fugitives must, therefore, have 
passed through the village long after its inhab¬ 
itants were abroad ; and how, without the gift 
of invisibility, they had contrived to elude no¬ 
tice, Edward could not conceive. 

Fifty years ago,” thought Edward, ‘‘ my 
sweet Ellen would have been deemed a witch for 
this trackless journey. Truly, I could wish I 
were a wizard, that I might bestride a broom¬ 
stick, and follow her.” 

While the young man, involved in these per¬ 
plexing thoughts, looked forth from the open 
128 


FANSHAWE 


window of the apartment, his attention was 
drawn to an individual, evidently of a different, 
though not of a higher class than the country¬ 
men among whom he stood. Edward now re¬ 
collected that he had noticed his rough dark 
face among the most earnest of those who had 
watched the arrival of the party. He had then 
taken him for one of the boatmen, of whom 
there were many in the village, and who had 
much of a sailor-like dress and appearance. A 
second and more attentive observation, how¬ 
ever, convinced Edward that this man’s life had 
not been spent upon fresh water; and, had any 
stronger evidence than the nameless marks which 
the ocean impressee upon its sons been neces¬ 
sary, it would have been found in his mode 
of locomotion. While Edward was observing 
him, he beat slowly up to one of Mr. Langton’s 
servants, who was standing near the door of the 
inn. He seemed to question the man with 
affected carelessness ; but his countenance was 
dark and perplexed when he turned to mingle 
again with the crowd. Edward lost no time in 
ascertaining from the servant the nature of his 
inquiries. They had related to the elopement 
of Mr. Langton’s daughter, which was, indeed, 
the prevailing, if not the sole subject of con¬ 
versation in the village. 

The grounds for supposing that this man 
was in any way connected with the angler were, 
129 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


perhaps, very slight; yet, in the perplexity of 
the whole affair, they induced Edward to resolve 
to get at the heart of his mystery. To attain 
this end, he took the most direct method, — by 
applying to the man himself. 

He had now retired apart from the throng 
and bustle of the village, and was seated upon 
a condemned boat, that was drawn up to rot 
upon the banks of the river. His arms were 
folded, and his hat drawn over his brows. The 
lower part of his face, which alone was visible, 
evinced gloom and depression, as did also the 
deep sighs, which, because he thought no one 
was near him, he did not attempt to restrain. 

“ Friend, I must speak with you,'' said Ed¬ 
ward Walcott, laying his hand upon his shoul¬ 
der, after contemplating the man a moment, 
himself unseen. 

He started at once from his abstraction and 
his seat, apparently expecting violence, and pre¬ 
pared to resist it; but, perceiving the youthful 
and solitary intruder upon his privacy, he com¬ 
posed his features with much quickness. 

“ What would you with me ? " he asked. 

“ They tarry long, — or you have kept a 
careless watch," said Edward, speaking at a ven¬ 
ture. 

For a moment, there seemed a probability 
of obtaining such a reply to this observation as 
the youth had intended to elicit. If any trust 
130 


FANSHAWE 


could be put in the language of the stranger’s 
countenance, a set of words different from those 
to which he subsequently gave utterance had 
risen to his lips. But he seemed naturally slow 
of speech; and this defect was now, as is fre¬ 
quently the case, advantageous in giving him 
space for reflection. 

“ Look you, youngster: crack no jokes on 
me,” he at length said contemptuously. ‘‘Away ! 
back whence you came, or ” — And he slightly 
waved a small rattan that he held in his right 
hand. 

Edward’s eyes sparkled, and his color rose. 
“ You must change this tone, fellow, and that 
speedily,” he observed. “ I order you to lower 
your hand, and answer the questions that I shall 
put to you.” 

The man gazed dubiously at him, but finally 
adopted a more conciliatory mode of speech. 

“Well, master; and what is your business 
with me ? ” he inquired. “ I am a boatman out 
of employ. Any commands in my line ? ” 

“ Pshaw! I know you, my good friend, and 
you cannot deceive me,” replied Edward Wal¬ 
cott. “We are private here,” he continued, 
looking around. “ I have no desire or inten¬ 
tion to do you harm ; and, if you act according 
to my directions, you shall have no cause to 
repent it.” 

“ And what if I refuse to put myself under 

131 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


your orders ? ” inquired the man. You are 
but a young captain for such an old hulk as 
mine.*’ 

“ The ill consequences of a refusal would all be 
on your own side,” replied Edward. I shall, 
in that case, deliver you up to justice: if I have 
not the means of capturing you myself,” he 
continued, observing the seaman’s eye to wan¬ 
der rather scornfully over his youthful and slen¬ 
der figure, “ there are hundreds within call whom 
it will be in vain to resist. Besides, it requires 
little strength to use this,” he added, laying his 
hand on a pistol. 

‘Mf that were all, I could suit you there, 
my lad,” muttered the stranger. He continued 
aloud: ‘‘Well, what is your will with me? 

D-d ungenteel treatment this ! But put 

your questions ; and, to oblige you, I may an¬ 
swer them, — if so be that I know anything of 
the matter.” 

“ You will do wisely,” observed the young 
man. “ And now to business. What reason 
have you to suppose that the persons for whom 
you watch are not already beyond the village ? ” 

The seaman paused long before he answered, 
and gazed earnestly at Edward, apparently en¬ 
deavoring to ascertain from his countenance the 
amount of his knowledge. This he probably 
overrated, but, nevertheless, hazarded a false¬ 
hood. 


132 



FANSHAWE 


“ I doubt not they passed before midnight/* 
he said. “ I warrant you they are many a league 
towards the seacoast, ere this.** 

“ You have kept watch, then, since mid¬ 
night ? ** asked Edward. 

“ Ay, that have I ! And a dark and rough 
one it was,** answered the stranger. 

‘‘ And you are certain that, if they passed at 
all, it must have been before that hour ? ** 

‘‘ I kept my walk across the road till the vil¬ 
lage was all astir,** said the seaman. “ They 
could not have missed me. So, you see, your 
best way is to give chase; for they have a long 
start of you, and you have no time to lose.** 
Your information is sufficient, my good 
friend,** said Edward, with a smile. I have 
reason to know that they did not commence 
their flight before midnight. You have made 
it evident that they have not passed since : ergo, 
they have not passed at all, — an indisputable 
syllogism. And now will I retrace my foot¬ 
steps.** 

Stay, young man,** said the stranger, pla¬ 
cing himself full in Edward*s way as he was 
about to hasten to the inn. “ You have drawn 
me in to betray my comrade ; but, before you 
leave this place, you must answer a question or 
two of mine. Do you mean to take the law 
with you? or will you right your wrongs, if you 
have any, with your own right hand ? ** 

133 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


“ It is my intention to take the latter method. 
But, if I choose the former, what then ? de¬ 
manded Edward. 

“ Nay, nothing: only you or I might not have 
gone hence alive,’’ replied the stranger. “ But 
as you say he shall have fair play ” — 

“ On my word, friend,” interrupted the young 
man, I fear your intelligence has come too 
late to do either good or harm. Look towards 
the inn : my companions are getting to horse, 
and, my life on it, they know whither to ride.” 

So saying, he hastened away, followed by the 
stranger. It was indeed evident that news of 
some kind or other had reached the village. 
The people were gathered in groups, conversing 
eagerly; and the pale cheeks, uplifted eyebrows, 
and outspread hands of some of the female sex 
filled Edward’s mind with undefined but intol¬ 
erable apprehensions. He forced his way to Dr. 
Melmoth, who had just mounted, and, seizing 
his bridle, peremptorily demanded if he knew 
aught of Ellen Langton. 


CHAPTER VIII 


“Full many a miserable year hath passed : 

She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead: 

And many a change her varied life hath known j 
But her heart none.” Maturin. 

S INCE her interview with the angler, which 
was interrupted by the appearance of Fan- 
shawe, Ellen Langton's hitherto calm and 
peaceful mind had been in a state of insufferable 
doubt and dismay. She was imperatively called 
upon — at least, she so conceived — to break 
through the rules which nature and education 
impose upon her sex, to quit the protection of 
those whose desire for her welfare was true and 
strong, and to trust herself, for what purpose 
she scarcely knew, to a stranger, from whom the 
instinctive purity of her mind would involunta¬ 
rily have shrunk, under whatever circumstances 
she had met him. The letter which she had re¬ 
ceived from the hands of the angler had seemed 
to her inexperience to prove beyond a doubt 
that the bearer was the friend of her father, and 
authorized by him, if her duty and affection 
were stronger than her fears, to guide her to 
his retreat. The letter spoke vaguely of losses 
and misfortunes, and of a necessity for conceal- 

135 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


ment on her father’s part, and secrecy on hers; 
and, to the credit of Ellen’s not very romantic 
understanding, it must be acknowledged that the 
mystery of the plot had nearly prevented its 
success. She did not, indeed, doubt that the 
letter was from her father’s hand ; for every line 
and stroke, and even many of its phrases, were 
familiar to her. Her apprehension was, that 
his misfortunes, of what nature soever they were, 
had affected his intellect, and that, under such 
an influence, he had commanded her to take a 
step which nothing less than such a command 
could justify. Ellen did not, however, remain 
long in this opinion; for when she reperused 
the letter, and considered the firm, regular char¬ 
acters and the style, — calm and cold, even in 
requesting such a sacrifice, — she felt that there 
was nothing like insanity here. In fine, she 
came gradually to the belief that there were 
strong reasons, though incomprehensible by her, 
for the secrecy that her father had enjoined. 

Having arrived at this conviction, her decision 
lay plain before her. Her affection for Mr. 
Langton was not, indeed, — nor was it possible, 
— so strong as that she would have felt for a par¬ 
ent who had watched over her from her infancy. 
Neither was the conception she had unavoid¬ 
ably formed of his character such as to promise 
that in him she would find an equivalent for all 
she must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle 
136 


FANSHAWE 


nature and loving heart, which otherwise would 
have rejoiced in a new object of affection, now 
shrank with something like dread from the idea 
of meeting her father, — stately, cold, and stern 
as she could not but imagine him. A sense of 
duty was therefore Ellen’s only support in re¬ 
solving to tread the dark path that lay before 
her. 

Had there been any person of her own sex 
in whom Ellen felt confidence, there is little 
doubt that she would so far have disobeyed her 
father’s letter as to communicate its contents, 
and take counsel as to her proceedings. But 
Mrs. Melmoth was the only female — except¬ 
ing, indeed, the maid servant — to whom it was 
possible to make the communication; and, 
though Ellen at first thought of such a step, her 
timidity and her knowledge of the lady’s char¬ 
acter did not permit her to venture upon it. 
She next reviewed her acquaintances of the other 
sex; and Dr. Melmoth first presented himself, 
as in every respect but one an unexceptionable 
confidant. But the single exception was equi¬ 
valent to many. The maiden, with the highest 
opinion of the doctor’s learning and talents, had 
sufficient penetration to know, that. In the ways 
of the world, she was herself the better skilled 
of the two. For a moment she thought of Ed¬ 
ward Walcott; but he was light and wild, and, 
which her delicacy made an insurmountable ob- 

137 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


jection, there was an untold love between them. 
Her thoughts finally centred on Fanshawe. In 
his judgment, young and inexperienced though 
he was, she would have placed a firm trust; and 
his zeal, from whatever cause it arose, she could 
not doubt. 

If, in the short time allowed her for reflection, 
an opportunity had occurred for consulting him, 
she would, in all probability, have taken advan¬ 
tage of it. But the terms on which they had 
parted the preceding evening had aflForded him 
no reason to hope for her confidence ; and he 
felt that there were others who had a better right 
to it than himself. He did not, therefore, throw 
himself in her way; and poor Ellen was conse¬ 
quently left without an adviser. 

The determination that resulted from her own 
unassisted wisdom has been seen. When dis¬ 
covered by Dr. Melmoth at Hugh Crombie’s 
inn, she was wholly prepared for flight, and, but 
for the intervention of the storm, would, ere 
then, have been far away. 

The firmness of resolve that had impelled a 
timid maiden upon such a step was not likely 
to be broken by one defeat; and Ellen, accord¬ 
ingly, confident that the stranger would make 
a second attempt, determined that no effort on 
her part should be wanting to its success. On 
reaching her chamber, therefore, instead of re- 

138 


FANSHAWE 


tiring to rest (of which, from her sleepless 
thoughts of the preceding night, she stood 
greatly in need), she sat watching for the abate¬ 
ment of the storm. Her meditations were now 
calmer than at any time since her first meeting 
with the angler. She felt as if her fate was de¬ 
cided. The stain had fallen upon her reputa¬ 
tion : she was no longer the same pure being 
in the opinion of those whose approbation she 
most valued. 

One obstacle to her flight — and, to a wo¬ 
man’s mind, a most powerful one — had thus 
been removed. Dark and intricate as was the 
way, it was easier now to proceed than to pause; 
and her desperate and forlorn situation gave her 
a strength which hitherto she had not felt. 

At every cessation in the torrent of rain that 
beat against the house, Ellen flew to the win¬ 
dow, expecting to see the stranger form beneath 
it. But the clouds would again thicken, and 
the storm recommence with its former violence ; 
and she began to fear that the approach of morn¬ 
ing would compel her to meet the now dreaded 
face of Dr. Melmoth. At length, however, a 
strong and steady wind, supplying the place of 
the fitful gusts of the preceding part of the 
night, broke and scattered the clouds from the 
broad expanse of the sky. The moon, com¬ 
mencing her late voyage not long before the 
139 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


sun, was now visible, setting forth like a lonely 
ship from the dark line of the horizon, and 
touching at many a little silver cloud the islands 
of that aerial deep. Ellen felt that now the 
time was come ; and, with a calmness wonder¬ 
ful to herself, she prepared for her final depar¬ 
ture. 

She had not long to wait ere she saw, between 
the vacancies of the trees, the angler advancing 
along the shady avenue that led to the principal 
entrance of Dr. Melmoth's dwelling. He had 
no need to summon her either by word or sig¬ 
nal ; for she had descended, emerged from the 
door, and stood before him, while he was yet at 
some distance from the house. 

You have watched well,” he observed, in a 
low, strange tone. “ As saith the Scripture, 
‘ Many daughters have done virtuously; but 
thou excellest them all.' ” 

He took her arm, and they hastened down 
the avenue. Then, leaving Hugh Crombie's 
inn on their right, they found its master in a 
spot so shaded that the moonbeams could not 
enlighten it. He held by the bridle two horses, 
one of which the angler assisted Ellen to mount. 
Then, turning to the landlord, he pressed a purse 
into his hand; but Hugh drew back, and it fell 
to the ground. 

‘‘No! This would not have tempted me, 
nor will it reward me,” he said. “If you have 
140 


FANSHAWE 

gold to spare, there are some that need it more 
than I.” 

I understand you, mine host. I shall take 
thought for them; and enough will remain for 
you and me,” replied his comrade. I have 
seen the day when such a purse would not have 
slipped between your fingers. Well, be it so. 
And now, Hugh, my old friend, a shake of your 
hand ; for we are seeing our last of each other.” 

“ Pray Heaven it be so! though I wish you 
no ill,” said the landlord, giving his hand. 

He then seemed about to approach Ellen, 
who had been unable to distinguish the words 
of this brief conversation ; but his comrade pre¬ 
vented him. “ There is no time to lose,” he 
observed. “ The moon is growing pale already, 
and we should have been many a mile beyond 
the valley ere this.” He mounted as he spoke; 
and, guiding Ellen's rein till they reached the 
road, they dashed away. 

It was now that she felt herself completely in 
his power; and with that consciousness there 
came a sudden change of feeling and an altered 
view of her conduct. A thousand reasons forced 
themselves upon her mind, seeming to prove 
that she had been deceived; while the motives, 
so powerful with her but a moment before, had 
either vanished from her memory or lost all 
their efficacy. Her companion, who gazed 
searchingly into her face, where the moonlight, 
141 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


coming down between the pines, allowed him to 
read its expression, probably discerned somewhat 
of the state of her thoughts. 

“ Do you repent so soon ? ” he inquired. 
‘‘We have a weary way before us. Faint not 
ere we have well entered upon it.'* 

“ I have left dear friends behind me, and am 
going I know not whither,” replied Ellen trem¬ 
blingly. 

“ You have a faithful guide,” he observed, 
turning away his head, and speaking in the tone 
of one who endeavors to smother a laugh. 

Ellen had no heart to continue the conversa¬ 
tion ; and they rode on in silence, and through 
a wild and gloomy scene. The wind roared 
heavily through the forest, and the trees shed 
their raindrops upon the travellers. The road, 
at all times rough, was now broken into deep 
gullies, through which streams went murmuring 
down to mingle with the river. The pale moon¬ 
light combined with the gray of the morning to 
give a ghastly and unsubstantial appearance to 
every object. 

The difficulties of the road had been so much 
increased by the storm, that the purple eastern 
clouds gave notice of the near approach of the 
sun just as the travellers reached the little lone¬ 
some cottage which Ellen remembered to have 
visited several months before. On arriving op¬ 
posite to it, her companion checked his horse, 
142 


FANSHAWE 


and gazed with a wild earnestness at the wretched 
habitation. Then, stifling a groan that would 
not altogether be repressed, he was about to 
pass on; but at that moment the cottage door 
opened, and a woman, whose sour, unpleasant 
countenance Ellen recognized, came hastily 
forth. She seemed not to heed the travellers; 
but the angler, his voice thrilling and quivering 
with indescribable emotion, addressed her. 

‘‘ Woman, whither do you go ? ” he inquired. 

She started, but, after a momentary pause, 
replied: “There is one within at the point of 
death. She struggles fearfully; and I cannot 
endure to watch alone by her bedside. If you 
are Christians, come in with me.” 

Ellen’s companion leaped hastily from his 
horse, assisted her also to dismount, and followed 
the woman into the cottage, having first thrown 
the bridles of the horses carelessly over the 
branch of a tree. Ellen trembled at the awful 
scene she would be compelled to witness; but, 
when death was so near at hand, it was more 
terrible to stand alone in the dim morning light 
than even to watch the parting of soul and body. 
She therefore entered the cottage. 

Her guide, his face muffled in his cloak, had 
taken his stand at a distance from the death¬ 
bed, in a part of the room which neither the 
increasing daylight nor the dim rays of a soli¬ 
tary lamp had yet enlightened. At Ellen’s en- 

143 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


trance, the dying woman lay still, and appar¬ 
ently calm, except that a plaintive, half-articu¬ 
late sound occasionally wandered through her 
lips. 

Hush ! For mercy’s sake, silence ! ” whis¬ 
pered the other woman to the strangers. “ There 
is good hope now that she will die a peaceable 
death; but, if she is disturbed, the boldest of 
us will not dare to stand by her bedside.” 

The whisper by which her sister endeavored 
to preserve quiet perhaps reached the ears of 
the dying female ; for she now raised herself in 
bed, slowly, but with a strength superior to what 
her situation promised. Her face was ghastly 
and wild, from long illness, approaching death, 
and disturbed intellect; and a disembodied spirit 
could scarcely be a more fearful object than one 
whose soul was just struggling forth. Her sis¬ 
ter, approaching with the soft and stealing step 
appropriate to the chamber of sickness and 
death, attempted to replace the covering around 
her, and to compose her again upon the pillow. 
‘‘Lie down and sleep, sister,” she said; “and, 
when the day breaks, I will waken you. Me- 
thinks your breath comes freer already. A lit¬ 
tle more slumber, and to-morrow you will be 
well.” 

“ My illness is gone: I am well,” said the 
dying woman, gasping for breath. “ I wander 
where the fresh breeze comes sweetly over my 
144 


FANSHAWE 


face; but a close and stifled air has choked my 
lungs.” 

‘‘Yet a little while, and you will no longer 
draw your breath in pain,” observed her sister, 
again replacing the bedclothes, which she con¬ 
tinued to throw off. 

“ My husband is with me,” murmured the 
widow. “He walks by my side, and speaks to 
me as in old times; but his words come faintly 
on my ear. Cheer me and comfort me, my 
husband ; for there is a terror in those dim, 
motionless eyes, and in that shadowy voice.” 

As she spoke thus, she seemed to gaze upon 
some object that stood by her bedside ; and the 
eyes of those who witnessed this scene could not 
but follow the direction of hers. They observed 
that the dying woman’s own shadow was marked 
upon the wall, receiving a tremulous motion 
from the fitful rays of the lamp, and from her 
own convulsive efibrts. “ My husband stands 
gazing on me,” she said again; “ but my son, 
— where is he ? And, as I ask, the father turns 
away his face. Where is our son ? For his 
sake, I have longed to come to this land of rest. 
For him I have sorrowed many years. Will 
he not comfort me now ? ” 

At these words the stranger made a few hasty 
steps towards the bed ; but, ere he reached it, he 
conquered the impulse that drew him thither, 
and, shrouding his face more deeply in his cloak, 
H5 


/ 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


returned to his former position. The dying 
woman, in the meantime, had thrown herself 
back upon the bed; and her sobbing and wail¬ 
ing, imaginary as was their cause, were inex¬ 
pressibly affecting. 

“ Take me back to earth,” she said ; for its 
griefs have followed me hither.” 

The stranger advanced, and, seizing the lamp, 
knelt down by the bedside, throwing the light 
full upon his pale and convulsed features. 

‘‘ Mother, here is your son ! ” he exclaimed. 

At that unforgotten voice, the darkness burst 
away at once from her soul. She arose in bed, 
her eyes and her whole countenance beaming 
with joy, and threw her arms about his neck. 
A multitude of words seemed struggling for 
utterance ; but they gave place to a low moaning 
sound, and then to the silence of death. The 
one moment of happiness, that recompensed 
years of sorrow, had been her last. Her son 
laid the lifeless form upon the pillow, and gazed 
with fixed eyes on his mother’s face. 

As he looked, the expression of enthusiastic 
joy that parting life had left upon the features 
faded gradually away; and the countenance, 
though no longer wild, assumed the sadness 
which it had worn through a long course of 
grief and pain. On beholding this natural con¬ 
sequence of death, the thought, perhaps, oc¬ 
curred to him, that her soul, no longer dependent 
146 


FANSHAWE 


on the imperfect means of intercourse possessed 
by mortals, had communed with his own, and 
become acquainted with all its guilt and misery. 
He started from the bedside, and covered his 
face with his hands, as if to hide it from those 
dead eyes. 

Such a scene as has been described could not 
but have a powerful effect upon any one who 
retained aught of humanity; and the grief of 
the son, whose natural feelings had been blunted, 
but not destroyed, by an evil life, was much 
more violent than his outward demeanor would 
have expressed. But his deep repentance for 
the misery he had brought upon his parent did 
not produce in him a resolution to do wrong no 
more. The sudden consciousness of accumu¬ 
lated guilt made him desperate. He felt as if 
no one had thenceforth a claim to justice or com¬ 
passion at his hands, when his neglect and cru¬ 
elty had poisoned his mother’s life and hastened 
her death. Thus it was that the Devil wrought 
with him to his own destruction, reversing the 
salutary effect which his mother would have died 
exultingly to produce upon his mind. He now 
turned to Ellen Langton with a demeanor sin¬ 
gularly calm and composed. 

‘‘ We must resume our journey,” he said, in 
his usual tone of voice. “ The sun is on the 
point of rising, though but little light finds its 
way into this hovel.” 


147 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Ellen*s previous suspicions as to the character 
of her companion had now become certainty so 
far as to convince her that she was in the power 
of a lawless and guilty man ; though what fate 
he intended for her she was unable to conjec¬ 
ture. An open opposition to his will, however, 
could not be ventured upon ; especially as she 
discovered, on looking round the apartment, 
that, with the exception of the corpse, they were 
alone. 

Will you not attend your mother's funeral ?" 
she asked, trembling, and conscious that he 
would discover her fears. 

‘‘ The dead must bury their dead," he replied. 

I have brought my mother to her grave, — 
and what can a son do more ? This purse, how¬ 
ever, will serve to lay her in the earth, and leave 
something for the old hag. Whither is she 
gone ? " interrupted he, casting a glance round 
the room in search of the old woman. ^^Nay, 
then, we must speedily to horse. I know her 
of old." 

Thus saying, he threw the purse upon the 
table, and, without trusting himself to look 
again towards the dead, conducted Ellen out of 
the cottage. The first rays of the sun at that 
moment gilded the tallest trees of the forest. 

On looking towards the spot where the horses 
had stood, Ellen thought that Providence, in 
answer to her prayers, had taken care for her de- 
148 


FANSHAWE 


liverance. They were no longer there, — a cir¬ 
cumstance easily accounted for by the haste with 
which the bridles had been thrown over the 
branch of the tree. Her companion, however, 
imputed it to another cause. 

The hag! She would sell her own flesh and 
blood by weight and measure,'’ he muttered to 
himself. “ This is some plot of hers, I know 
well." 

He put his hand to his forehead for a mo¬ 
ment's space, seeming to reflect on the course 
most advisable to be pursued. Ellen, perhaps 
unwisely, interposed. 

“ Would it not be well to return ? " she asked 
timidly. ‘‘ There is now no hope of escaping; 
but I might yet reach home undiscovered." 

“ Return ! " repeated her guide, with a look 
and smile from which she turned away her face. 
‘‘ Have you forgotten your father and his mis¬ 
fortunes ? No, no, sweet Ellen; it is too late 
for such thoughts as these." 

He took her hand, and led her towards the for¬ 
est, in the rear of the cottage. She would fain have 
resisted; but they were all alone, and the at¬ 
tempt must have been both fruitless and danger¬ 
ous. She therefore trod with him a path so de¬ 
vious, so faintly traced, and so overgrown with 
bushes and young trees, that only a most accu¬ 
rate acquaintance in his early days could have 
enabled her guide to retain it. To him, how- 
149 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


ever, it seemed so perfectly familiar, that he was 
not once compelled to pause, though the nu¬ 
merous windings soon deprived Ellen of all 
knowledge of the situation of the cottage. They 
descended a steep hill, and, proceeding parallel 
to the river, — as Ellen judged by its rushing 
sound, — at length found themselves at what 
proved to be the termination of their walk. 

Ellen now recollected a remark of Edward 
Walcott’s respecting the wild and rude scenery 
through which the river here kept its way; and, 
in less agitating circumstances, her pleasure and 
admiration would have been great. They stood 
beneath a precipice, so high that the loftiest 
pine tops (and many of them seemed to soar 
to heaven) scarcely surmounted it. This line 
of rock has a considerable extent, at unequal 
heights, and with many interruptions, along the 
course of the river ; and it seems probable that, 
at some former period, it was the boundary of 
the waters, though they are now confined within 
far less ambitious limits. The inferior portion 
of the crag, beneath which Ellen and her guide 
were standing, varies so far from the perpen¬ 
dicular as not to be inaccessible by a careful 
footstep. But only one person has been known 
to attempt the ascent of the superior half, and 
only one the descent; yet, steep as is the height, 
trees and bushes of various kinds have clung to 
the rock, wherever their roots could gain the 
150 


FANSHAWE 


slightest hold; thus seeming to prefer the scanty 
and difficult nourishment of the cliff to a more 
luxurious life in the rich interval that extends 
from its base to the river. But, whether or no 
these hardy vegetables have voluntarily chosen 
their rude resting place, the cliff is indebted to 
them for much of the beauty that tempers its 
sublimity. When the eye is pained and wearied 
by the bold nakedness of the rock, it rests with 
pleasure on the cheerful foliage of the birch, or 
upon the darker green of the funereal pine. 
Just at the termination of the accessible portion 
of the crag, these trees are so numerous, and 
their foliage so dense, that they completely 
shroud from view a considerable excavation, 
formed, probably, hundreds of years since, by 
the fall of a portion of the rock. The detached 
fragment still lies at a little distance from the 
base, gray and moss-grown, but corresponding, 
in its general outline, to the cavity from which 
it was rent. 

But the most singular and beautiful object in 
all this scene is a tiny fount of crystal water, 
that gushes forth from the high, smooth fore¬ 
head of the cliff. Its perpendicular descent is 
of many feet; after which it finds its way, with 
a sweet diminutive murmur, to the level ground. 

It is not easy to conceive whence the barren 
rock procures even the small supply of water 
that is necessary to the existence of this stream; 

151 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


it is as unaccountable as the gush of gentle feel¬ 
ing which sometimes proceeds from the hardest 
heart: but there it continues to flow and fall, 
undiminished and unincreased. The stream is 
so slender, that the gentlest breeze suffices to 
disturb its descent, and to scatter its pure sweet 
waters over the face of the cliff*. But in that 
deep forest there is seldom a breath of wind; 
so that, plashing continually upon one spot, the 
fount has worn its own little channel of white 
sand, by which it finds its way to the river. 
Alas that the Naiades have lost their old author¬ 
ity ! for what a deity of tiny loveliness must 
once have presided here! 

Ellen's companion paused not to gaze either 
upon the loveliness or the sublimity of this 
scene, but, assisting her where it was requisite, 
began the steep and difficult ascent of the lower 
part of the cliff. The maiden’s ingenuity in 
vain endeavored to assign reasons for this move¬ 
ment ; but when they reached the tuft of trees, 
which, as has been noticed, grew at the ulti¬ 
mate point where mortal footstep might safely 
tread, she perceived through their thick branches 
the recess in the rock. Here they entered ; and 
her guide pointed to a mossy seat, in the forma¬ 
tion of which, to judge from its regularity, art 
had probably a share. 

“ Here you may remain in safety,” he ob¬ 
served, “ till I obtain the means of proceeding. 

152 


FANSHAWE 


In this spot you need fear no intruder; but it 
will be dangerous to venture beyond its bounds/' 
The meaning glance that accompanied these 
words intimated to poor Ellen, that, in warning 
her against danger, he alluded to the vengeance 
with which he would visit any attempt to es¬ 
cape. To leave her thus alone, trusting to the 
influence of such a threat, was a bold, yet a 
necessary and by no means a hopeless measure. 
On Ellen it produced the desired effect; and 
she sat in the cave as motionless, for a time, as 
if she had herself been a part of the rock. In 
other circumstances this shady recess would 
have been a delightful retreat during the sultry 
warmth of a summer's day. The dewy cool¬ 
ness of the rock kept the air always fresh, and 
the sunbeams never thrust themselves so as to 
dissipate the mellow twilight through the green 
trees with which the chamber was curtained. 
Ellen's sleeplessness and agitation for many pre¬ 
ceding hours had perhaps deadened her feelings; 
for she now felt a sort of indifference creeping 
upon her, an inability to realize the evils of her 
situation, at the same time that she was per¬ 
fectly aware of them all. This torpor of mind 
increased, till her eyelids began to grow heavy 
and the cave and trees to swim before her sight. 
In a few moments more she would probably 
have been in dreamless slumber; but, rousing 
herself by a strong effort, she looked round the 

153 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


narrow limits of the cave in search of objects to 
excite her worn-out mind. 

She now perceived, wherever the smooth rock 
afforded place for them, the initials or the full- 
length names of former visitants of the cave. 
What wanderer on mountain tops or in deep 
solitudes has not felt the influence of these 
records of humanity, telling him, when such a 
conviction is soothing to his heart, that he is 
not alone in the world ? It was singular, that, 
when her own mysterious situation had almost 
lost its power to engage her thoughts, Ellen 
perused these barren memorials with a certain 
degree of interest. She went on repeating them 
aloud, and starting at the sound of her own 
voice, till at length, as one name passed through 
her lips, she paused, and then, leaning her fore¬ 
head against the letters, burst into tears. It 
was the name of Edward Walcott; and it 
struck upon her heart, arousing her to a full 
sense of her present misfortunes and dangers, 
and, more painful still, of her past happiness. 
Her tears had, however, a soothing and at the 
same time a strengthening effect upon her mind; 
for, when their gush was over, she raised her 
head, and began to meditate on the means of 
escape. She wondered at the species of fascina¬ 
tion that had kept her, as if chained to the rock, 
so long, when there was, in reality, nothing to 
bar her pathway. She determined, late as it 

154 


FANSHAWE 


was, to attempt her own deliverance, and for 
that purpose began slowly and cautiously to 
emerge from the cave. 

Peeping out from among the trees, she looked 
and listened with most painful anxiety to dis¬ 
cover if any living thing were in that seeming 
solitude, or if any sound disturbed the heavy 
stillness. But she saw only Nature in her wild¬ 
est forms, and heard only the plash and mur¬ 
mur (almost inaudible, because continual) of 
the little waterfall, and the quick, short throb¬ 
bing of her own heart, against which she pressed 
her hand as if to hush it. Gathering courage, 
therefore, she began to descend ; and, starting 
often at the loose stones that even her light 
footstep displaced and sent rattling down, she 
at length reached the base of the crag in safety. 
She then made a few steps in the direction, as 
nearly as she could judge, by which she arrived 
at the spot, but paused, with a sudden revul¬ 
sion of the blood to her heart, as her guide 
emerged from behind a projecting part of the 
rock. He approached her deliberately, an iron¬ 
ical smile writhing his features into a most dis¬ 
agreeable expression ; while in his eyes there 
was something that seemed a wild, fierce joy. 
By a species of sophistry, of which oppressors 
often make use, he had brought hirnself to be¬ 
lieve that he was now the injured one, and that 
Ellen, by her distrust of him, had fairly sub- 
155 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


jected herself to whatever evil it consisted with 
his will and power to inflict upon her. Her 
only restraining influence over him, the con¬ 
sciousness, in his own mind, that he possessed 
her confidence, was now done away. Ellen, as 
well as her enemy, felt that this was the case. 
She knew not what to dread; but she was well 
aware that danger was at hand, and that, in the 
deep wilderness, there was none to help her, 
except that Being with whose inscrutable pur¬ 
poses it might consist to allow the wicked to 
triumph for a season, and the innocent to be 
brought low. 

Are you so soon weary of this quiet re¬ 
treat ?demanded her guide, continuing to 
wear the same sneering smile. Or has your 
anxiety for your father induced you to set forth 
alone in quest of the afflicted old man ?'' 

O, if I were but with him ! ’’ exclaimed 
Ellen. But this place is lonely and fearful, 
and I cannot endure to remain here.” 

Lonely, is it, sweet Ellen ? ” he rejoined. 

Am I not with you? Yes, it is lonely,— lonely 
as guilt could wish. Cry aloud, Ellen, and spare 
not. Shriek, and see if there be any among 
these rocks and woods to hearken to you! ” 

There is! there is One! ” exclaimed Ellen, 
shuddering, and affrighted at the fearful mean¬ 
ing of his countenance. '‘He is here ! He is 
there ! ” And she pointed to heaven. 

156 


FANSHAWE 


It may be so, dearest/' he replied. But if 
there be an Ear that hears and an Eye that sees 
all the evil of the earth, yet the Arm is slow to 
avenge. Else why do I stand before you a liv¬ 
ing man ? " 

His vengeance may be delayed for a time, 
but not forever,” she answered, gathering a de¬ 
sperate courage from the extremity of her fear. 

‘‘You say true, lovely Ellen ; and I have done 
enough, ere now, to insure its heaviest weight. 
There is a pass, when evil deeds can add nothing 
to guilt, nor good ones take anything from it.” 

“ Think of your mother, — of her sorrow 
through life, and perhaps even after death,” El¬ 
len began to say. But, as she spoke these words, 
the expression of his face was changed, becom¬ 
ing suddenly so dark and fiend-like, that she 
clasped her hands and fell on her knees before 
him. 

“ I have thought of my mother,” he replied, 
speaking very low, and putting his face close to 
hers. “ I remember the neglect, the wrong, the 
lingering and miserable death, that she received 
at my hands. By what claim can either man or 
woman henceforth expect mercy from me ? If 
God will help you, be it so ; but by those words 
you have turned my heart to stone.” 

At this period of their conversation, when El¬ 
len's peril seemed most imminent, the attention 
of both was attracted by a fragment of rock, 

157 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

which, falling from the summit of the crag, struck 
very near them. Ellen started from her knees, 
and, with her false guide, gazed eagerly upward, 
— he in the fear of interruption, she in the hope 
of deliverance. 

158 


CHAPTER IX 


At length, he cries, behold the fated spring ! 

Yon rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest, 

Dark rocks its crystal source o’ershadowing.” 

Psyche. 

T he tale now returns to Fanshawe, who, 
as will be recollected, after being over¬ 
taken by Edward Walcott, was left 
with little apparent prospect of aiding in the 
deliverance of Ellen Langton. 

It would be difficult to analyze the feelings 
with which the student pursued the chase, or to 
decide whether he was influenced and animated 
by the same hopes of successful love that cheered 
his rival. That he was conscious of such hopes 
there is little reason to suppose; for the most 
powerful minds are not always the best ac¬ 
quainted with their own feelings. Had Fan¬ 
shawe, moreover, acknowledged to himself the 
possibility of gaining Ellen’s affections, his gen¬ 
erosity would have induced him to refrain from 
her society before it was too late. He had read 
her character with accuracy, and had seen how 
fit she was to love, and to be loved by, a man 
who could find his happiness in the common 
occupations of the world ; and Fanshawe never 

159 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


deceived himself so far as to suppose that this 
would be the case with him. Indeed, he often 
wondered at the passion with which Ellen’s sim¬ 
ple loveliness of mind and person had inspired 
him, and which seemed to be founded on the 
principle of contrariety rather than of sympathy. 
It was the yearning of a soul, formed by Nature 
in a peculiar mould, for communion with those 
to whom it bore a resemblance, yet of whom it 
was not. But there was no reason to suppose 
that Ellen, who differed from the multitude only 
as being purer and better, would cast away her 
affections on the one, of all who surrounded her, 
least fitted to make her happy. Thus Fanshawe 
reasoned with himself, and of this he believed 
that he was convinced. Yet ever and anon he 
found himself involved in a dream of bliss, of 
which Ellen was to be the giver and the sharer. 
Then would he rouse himself, and press upon 
his mind the chilling consciousness that it was 
and could be but a dream. There was also an¬ 
other feeling, apparently discordant with those 
which have been enumerated. It was a longing 
for rest, for his old retirement, that came at in¬ 
tervals so powerfully upon him, as he rode on, 
that his heart sickened of the active exertion on 
which fate had thrust him. 

After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, 
Fanshawe continued his journey with as much 
speed as was attainable by his wearied horse, but 
i6o 


FANSHAWE 


at a pace infinitely too slow for his earnest 
thoughts. These had carried him far away, leav¬ 
ing him only such a consciousness of his present 
situation as to make diligent use of the spur, 
when a horse’s tread at no great distance struck 
upon his ear. He looked forward and behind ; 
but, though a considerable extent of the narrow, 
rocky, and grass-grown road was visible, he was 
the only traveller there. Yet again he heard the 
sound, which, he now discovered, proceeded 
from among the trees that lined the roadside. 
Alighting, he entered the forest, with the inten¬ 
tion, if the steed proved to be disengaged, and 
superior to his own, of appropriating him to his 
own use. He soon gained a view of the object 
he sought; but the animal rendered a closer ac¬ 
quaintance unattainable, by immediately taking 
to his heels. Fanshawe had, however, made a 
most interesting discovery ; for the horse was ac¬ 
coutred with a side saddle ; and who but Ellen 
Langton could have been his rider ? At this 
conclusion, though his perplexity was thereby in 
no degree diminished, the student immediately 
arrived. Returning to the road, and perceiving 
on the summit of the hill a cottage, which he 
recognized as the one he had entered with Ellen 
and Edward Walcott, he determined there to 
make inquiry respecting the objects of his pur¬ 
suit. 

On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken 

i6i 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


dwelling, he saw that it was not now so desolate 
of inmates as on his previous visit. In the sin¬ 
gle inhabitable apartment were several elderly 
women, clad evidently in their well-worn and 
well-saved Sunday clothes, and all wearing a 
deep grievous expression of countenance. Fan- 
shawe was not long in deciding that death was 
within the cottage, and that these aged females 
were of the class who love the house of mourn¬ 
ing, because to them it is a house of feasting. 
It is a fact, disgusting and lamentable, that the 
disposition which Heaven, for the best of pur¬ 
poses, has implanted in the female breast — to 
watch by the sick and comfort the afflicted — 
frequently becomes depraved into an odious 
love of scenes of pain and death and sorrow. 
Such women are like the Ghouls of the Arabian 
Tales, whose feasting was among tombstones 
and upon dead carcasses. 

(It is sometimes, though less frequently, the 
case, that this disposition to make a‘‘joy of 
grief” extends to individuals of the other sex. 
But in us it is even less excusable and more 
disgusting, because it is our nature to shun the 
sick and afflicted ; and, unless restrained by 
principles other than we bring into the world 
with us, men might follow the example of many 
animals in destroying the infirm of their own 
species. Indeed, instances of this nature might 
be adduced among savage nations.) Sometimes, 
162 


FANSHAWE 


however, from an original lusus natur^ey or from 
the influence of circumstances, a man becomes 
a haunter of deathbeds, a tormentor of afflicted 
hearts, and a follower of funerals. Such an 
abomination now appeared before Fanshawe, 
and beckoned him into the cottage. He was 
considerably beyond the middle age, rather cor¬ 
pulent, with a broad, fat, tallow-complexioned 
countenance. The student obeyed his silent 
call, and entered the room, through the open 
door of which he had been gazing. 

He now beheld, stretched out upon the bed 
where she had so lately lain in life, though 
dying, the yet uncofflned corpse of the aged 
woman whose death has been described. How 
frightful it seemed ! — that fixed countenance 
of ashy paleness, amid its decorations of muslin 
and fine linen, as if a bride were decked for the 
marriage chamber, as if Death were a bride¬ 
groom and the coffln a bridal bed. Alas that 
the vanity of dress should extend even to the 
grave! 

The female who, as being the near and only 
relative of the deceased, was supposed to stand 
in need of comfort, was surrounded by five or 
six of her own sex. These continually poured 
into her ear the stale, trite maxims which, where 
consolation is actually required, add torture in¬ 
supportable to the wounded heart. Their pre¬ 
sent object, however, conducted herself with all 
163 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


due decorum, holding her handkerchief to her 
tearless eyes, and answering with very grievous 
groans to the words of her comforters. Who 
could have imagined that there was joy in her 
heart, because, since her sister’s death, there was 
but one remaining obstacle between herself and 
the sole property of that wretched cottage ? 

While Fanshawe stood silently observing this 
scene, a low, monotonous voice was uttering 
some words in his ear, of the meaning of which 
his mind did not immediately take note. He 
turned, and saw that the speaker was the person 
who had invited him to enter. 

What is your pleasure with me, sir ? ” de¬ 
manded the student. 

I make bold to ask,” replied the man, 
“ whether you would choose to partake of some 
creature comfort, before joining in prayer with 
the family and friends of our deceased sister.” 
As he spoke, he pointed to a table, on which 
was a moderate-sized stone jug and two or three 
broken glasses; for then, as now, there were 
few occasions of joy or grief on which ardent 
spirits were not considered indispensable, to 
heighten the one or to alleviate the other. 

“ I stand in no need of refreshment,” an¬ 
swered Fanshawe ; ‘‘and it is not my intention 
to pray at present.” 

“ I pray your pardon, reverend sir,” rejoined 
the other; “ but your face is pale, and you look 
164 


FANSHAWE 


wearied. A drop from yonder vessel is need¬ 
ful to recruit the outward man. And for the 
prayer, the sisters will expect it; and their souls 
are longing for the outpouring of the Spirit. I 
was intending to open my own mouth with 
such words as are given to my poor ignorance, 
but ” — 

Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this 
address, which proceeded on the supposition, 
arising from his black dress and thoughtful 
countenance, that he was a clergyman. But 
one of the females now approached him, and 
intimated that the sister of the deceased was 
desirous of the benefit of his conversation. He 
would have returned a negative to this request, 
but, looking towards the afflicted woman, he saw 
her withdraw her handkerchief from her eyes, 
and cast a brief but penetrating and most intel¬ 
ligent glance upon him. He immediately ex¬ 
pressed his readiness to olfer such consolation 
as might be in his power. 

“ And in the meantime,*' observed the lay 
preacher, I will give the sisters to expect a 
word of prayer and exhortation, either from you 
or from myself." 

These words were lost upon the supposed 
clergyman, who was already at the side of the 
mourner. The females withdrew out of ear¬ 
shot to give place to a more legitimate com¬ 
forter than themselves. 

165 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


What know you respecting my purpose ? ** 
inquired Fanshawe, bending towards her. 

The woman gave a groan — the usual result 
of all efforts at consolation — for the edification 
of the company, and then replied in a whisper, 
which reached only the ear for which it was in¬ 
tended : I know whom you come to seek: I 
can direct you to them. Speak low, for God's 
sake! " she continued, observing that Fan- 
shawe was about to utter an exclamation. She 
then resumed her groans with greater zeal than 
before. 

Where— where are they ? " asked the stu¬ 
dent, in a whisper which all his efforts could 
scarcely keep below his breath. I adjure you 
to tell me.” 

And, if I should, how am I like to be bet¬ 
tered by it ? ” inquired the old woman, her 
speech still preceded and followed by a groan. 

O God ! The auri sacra fames ! ” thought 
Fanshawe, with a sickening heart, looking at the 
motionless corpse upon the bed, and then at the 
wretched being whom the course of nature, in 
comparatively a moment of time, would reduce 
to the same condition. 

He whispered again, however, putting his 
purse into the hag's hand : “Take this. Make 
your own terms when they are discovered. Only 
tell me where I must seek them,— and speedily, 
or it may be too late.'' 

i66 


FANSHAWE 


“ I am a poor woman, and am afflicted,** said 
she, taking the purse, unseen by any who were 
in the room. It is little that worldly goods can 
do for me, and not long can I enjoy them.** 
And here she was delivered of a louder and a 
more heartfelt groan than ever. She then con¬ 
tinued : ‘‘ Follow the path behind the cottage, 
that leads to the riverside. Walk along the 
foot of the rock, and search for them near the 
waterspout. Keep a slow pace till you are out 
of sight,** she added, as the student started to 
his feet. 

The guests of the cottage did not attempt to 
oppose Fanshawe*s progress, when they saw him 
take the path towards the forest, imagining, 
probably, that he was retiring for the purpose of 
secret prayer. But the old woman laughed 
behind the handkerchief with which she veiled 
her face. 

“Take heed to your steps, boy,** she mut¬ 
tered ; “ for they are leading you whence you 
will not return. Death, too, for the slayer. Be 
it so.** 

Fanshawe, in the meanwhile, contrived to dis¬ 
cover, and for a while to retain, the narrow and 
winding path that led to the riverside. But it 
was originally no more than a track, by which the 
cattle belonging to the cottage went down to their 
watering place, and by these four-footed pas¬ 
sengers it had long been deserted. The fern 
167 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


bushes, therefore, had grown over it; and in 
several places trees of considerable size had shot 
up in the midst. These difficulties could scarcely 
have been surmounted by the utmost caution; 
and as Fanshawe’s thoughts were too deeply 
fixed upon the end to pay a due regard to the 
means, he soon became desperately bewildered 
both as to the locality of the river and of the 
cottage. Had he known, however, in which 
direction to seek the latter, he would not, prob¬ 
ably, have turned back; not that he was in¬ 
fected by any chivalrous desire to finish the 
adventure alone, but because he would expect 
little assistance from those he had left there. 
Yet he could not but wonder — though he had 
not, in his first eagerness, taken notice of it — at 
the anxiety of the old woman that he should 
proceed singly, and without the knowledge of 
her guests, on the search. He nevertheless con¬ 
tinued to wander on, — pausing often to listen 
for the rush of the river, and then starting for¬ 
ward with fresh rapidity, to rid himself of the 
sting of his own thoughts, which became pain¬ 
fully intense when undisturbed by bodily mo¬ 
tion. His way was now frequently interrupted 
by rocks, that thrust their huge gray heads from 
the ground, compelling him to turn aside, and 
thus depriving him, fortunately, perhaps, of all 
remaining idea of the direction he had intended 
to pursue. 


i68 


FANSHAWE 


Thus he went on, his head turned back, and 
taking little heed to his footsteps, when, perceiv¬ 
ing that he trod upon a smooth, level rock, he 
looked forward, and found himself almost on 
the utmost verge of a precipice. 

After the throbbing of the heart that followed 
this narrow escape had subsided, he stood gaz¬ 
ing down where the sunbeams slept so pleasantly 
at the roots of the tall old trees, with whose 
highest tops he was upon a level. Suddenly 
he seemed to hear voices — one well-remem¬ 
bered voice — ascending from beneath ; and, 
approaching to the edge of the cliff, he saw at its 
base the two whom he sought. 

He saw and interpreted Ellen’s look and at¬ 
titude of entreaty, though the words with which 
she sought to soften the ruthless heart of her 
guide became inaudible ere they reached the 
height where Fanshawe stood. He felt that 
Heaven had sent him thither, at the moment 
of her utmost need, to be the preserver of all 
that was dear to him ; and he paused only to 
consider the mode in which her deliverance was 
to be effected. Life he would have laid down 
willingly, exultingly: his only care was, that the 
sacrifice should not be in vain. 

At length, when Ellen fell upon her knees, 
he lifted a small fragment of rock and threw it 
down the cliff. It struck so near the pair, that 
it imrm'^cely drew the attention of both. 

169 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


When the betrayer, at the instant in which he 
had almost defied the power of the Omnipotent 
to bring help to Ellen, became aware of Fan- 
shawe’s presence, his hardihood failed him for 
a time, and his knees actually tottered beneath 
him. There was something awful, to his ap¬ 
prehension, in the slight form that stood so far 
above him, like a being from another sphere, 
looking down upon his wickedness. But his 
half-superstitious dread endured only a mo¬ 
ment’s space ; and then, mustering the courage 
that in a thousand dangers had not deserted him, 
he prepared to revenge the intrusion by which 
Fanshawe had a second time interrupted his 
designs. 

By Heaven, I will cast him down at her 
feet! ” he muttered through his closed teeth. 
‘‘ There shall be no form nor likeness of man 
left in him. Then let him rise up, if he is able, 
and defend her.” 

Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard 
in his eager hatred and desire for vengeance, he 
began a desperate attempt to ascend the cliff. 
The space which only had hitherto been deemed 
accessible was quickly passed ; and in a moment 
more he was halfway up the precipice, cling¬ 
ing to trees, shrubs, and projecting portions of 
the rock, and escaping through hazards which 
seemed to menace inevitable destruction. 

Fanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, 
170 


FANSHAWE 


deemed that every step would be his last; but 
when he perceived that more than half, and ap¬ 
parently the most difficult part, of the ascent 
was surmounted, his opinion changed. His 
courage, however, did not fail him as the mo¬ 
ment of need drew nigh. His spirits rose buoy¬ 
antly ; his limbs seemed to grow firm and 
strong; and he stood on the edge of the pre¬ 
cipice, prepared for the death struggle which 
would follow the success of his enemy's at¬ 
tempt. 

But that attempt was not successful. When 
within a few feet of the summit, the adventurer 
grasped at a twig too slenderly rooted to sustain 
his weight. It gave way in his hand, and he 
fell backward down the precipice. His head 
struck against the less perpendicular part of the 
rock, whence the body rolled heavily down to 
the detached fragment, of which mention has 
heretofore been made. There was no life left 
in him. With all the passion of hell alive in 
his heart, he had met the fate that he intended 
for Fanshawe. 

The student paused not then to shudder at 
the sudden and awful overthrow of his enemy; 
for he saw that Ellen lay motionless at the foot 
of the cliflF. She had indeed fainted at the mo¬ 
ment she became aware of her deliverer's pre¬ 
sence ; and no stronger proof could she have 
given of her firm reliance upon his protection. 

171 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Fanshawe was not deterred by the danger, of 
which he had just received so fearful an evi¬ 
dence, from attempting to descend to her assist¬ 
ance ; and, whether owing to his advantage in 
lightness of frame or to superior caution, he 
arrived safely at the base of the precipice. 

He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his 
arms, and, resting her head against his shoulder, 
gazed on her cheek of lily paleness with a joy, 
a triumph, that rose almost to madness. It 
contained no mixture of hope ; it had no refer¬ 
ence to the future: it was the perfect bliss of a 
moment, — an insulated point of happiness. H e 
bent over her, and pressed a kiss — the first, and 
he knew it would be the last — on her pale 
lips ; then, bearing her to the fountain, he sprin¬ 
kled its waters profusely over her face, neck, 
and bosom. She at length opened her eyes, 
slowly and heavily ; but her mind was evidently 
wandering, till Fanshawe spoke. 

Fear not, Ellen : you are safe,” he said. 

At the sound of his voice, her arm, which 
was thrown over his shoulder, involuntarily 
tightened its embrace, telling him, by that mute 
motion, with how firm a trust she confided in 
him. But, as a fuller sense of her situation 
returned, she raised herself to her feet, though 
still retaining the support of his arm. It was 
singular, that, although her insensibility had 
commenced before the fall of her guide, she 
172 


FANSHAWE 


turned away her eyes, as if instinctively, from 
the spot where the mangled body lay ; nor did 
she inquire of Fanshawe the manner of her 
deliverance. 

“ Let us begone from this place,’' she said, in 
faint, low accents, and with an inward shudder. 

They walked along the precipice, seeking 
some passage by which they might gain its sum¬ 
mit, and at length arrived at that by which Ellen 
and her guide had descended. Chance — for 
neither Ellen nor Fanshawe could have discov¬ 
ered the path — led them, after but little wan¬ 
dering, to the cottage. A messenger was sent 
forward to the town to inform Dr. Melmoth of 
the recovery of his ward; and the intelligence 
thus received had interrupted Edward Walcott’s 
conversation with the seaman. 

It would have been impossible, in the man¬ 
gled remains of Ellen’s guide, to discover the 
son of the Widow Butler, except from the evi¬ 
dence of her sister, who became, by his death, 
the sole inheritrix of the cottage. The history 
of this evil and unfortunate man must be com¬ 
prised within very narrow limits. A harsh father 
and his own untamable disposition had driven 
him from home in his boyhood; and chance 
had made him the temporary companion of 
Hugh Crombie. After two years of wandering, 
when in a foreign country and in circumstances 
of utmost need, he attracted the notice of Mr. 

173 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Langton. The merchant took his young coun¬ 
tryman under his protection, afforded him ad¬ 
vantages of education, and, as his capacity was 
above mediocrity, gradually trusted him in many 
affairs of importance. During this period, there 
was no evidence of dishonesty on his part. On 
the contrary, he manifested a zeal for Mr. Lang- 
ton’s interest, and a respect for his person, that 
proved his strong sense of the benefits he had 
received. But he unfortunately fell into certain 
youthful indiscretions, which, if not entirely par¬ 
donable, might have been palliated by many 
considerations that would have occurred to a 
merciful man. Mr. Langton’s justice, however, 
was seldom tempered by mercy; and, on this 
occasion, he shut the door of repentance against 
his erring protege^ and left him in a situation not 
less desperate than that from which he had re¬ 
lieved him. The goodness and the nobleness 
of which his heart was not destitute turned, from 
that time, wholly to evil; and he became irre¬ 
coverably ruined and irreclaimably depraved. 
His wandering life had led him, shortly before 
the period of this tale, to his native country. 
Here the erroneous intelligence of Mr. Lang¬ 
ton’s death had reached him, and suggested the 
scheme, which circumstances seemed to render 
practicable, but the fatal termination of which 
has been related. 

The body was buried where it had fallen, close 

174 


FANSHAWE 


by the huge, gray, moss-grown fragment of rock, 
— a monument on which centuries can work lit¬ 
tle change. The eighty years that have elapsed 
since the death of the widow’s son have, how¬ 
ever, been sufficient to obliterate an inscription 
which some one was at the pains to cut in the 
smooth surface of the stone. Traces of letters 
are still discernible; but the writer’s many ef¬ 
forts could never discover a connected meaning. 
The grave, also, is overgrown with fern bushes, 
and sunk to a level with the surrounding soil. 
But the legend, though my version of it may 
be forgotten, will long be traditionary in that 
lonely spot, and give to the rock and the pre¬ 
cipice and the fountain an interest thrilling to 
the bosom of the romantic wanderer. 

175 


CHAPTER X 


‘ Sitting then in shelter shady, 

To observe and mark his mone 
Suddenly I saw a lady 
Hasting to him all alone, 

Clad in maiden-white and green. 

Whom I judged the Forest Queen.” 

The Woodman’s Bear. 


D uring several weeks succeeding her 
danger and deliverance, Ellen Langton 
was confined to her chamber by illness, 
resulting from the agitation she had endured. 
Her father embraced the earliest opportunity to 
express his deep gratitude to Fanshawe for the 
inestimable service he had rendered, and to in¬ 
timate a desire to requite it to the utmost of his 
power. He had understood that the student’s 
circumstances were not prosperous, and, with 
the feeling of one who was habituated to give 
and receive a quid pro quoy he would have re¬ 
joiced to share his abundance with the deliverer 
of his daughter. But Fanshawe’s flushed brow 
and haughty eye, when he perceived the thought 
that was stirring in Mr. Langton’s mind, suffi¬ 
ciently proved to the discerning merchant that 
money was not, in the present instance, a circu¬ 
lating medium. His penetration, in fact, very 
176 


FANSHAWE 


soon informed him of the motives by which the 
young man had been actuated in risking his life 
for Ellen Langton; but he made no allusion 
to the subject, concealing his intentions, if any 
he had, in his own bosom. 

During Ellen’s illness, Edward Walcott had 
manifested the deepest anxiety respecting her: 
he had wandered around and within the house, 
like a restless ghost, informing himself of the 
slightest fluctuation in her health, and thereby 
graduating his happiness or misery. He was at 
length informed that her convalescence had so 
far progressed, that, on the succeeding day, she 
would venture below. From that time Edward’s 
visits to Dr. Melmoth’s mansion were relin¬ 
quished. His cheek grew pale and his eye lost 
its merry light; but he resolutely kept himself 
a banished man. Multifarious were the conjec¬ 
tures to which this course of conduct gave rise ; 
but Ellen understood and approved his motives. 
The maiden must have been far more blind than 
ever woman was in such a matter, if the late 
events had not convinced her of Fanshawe’s 
devoted attachment; and she saw that Edward 
Walcott, feeling the superior, the irresistible 
strength of his rival’s claim, had retired from 
the field. Fanshawe, however, discovered no 
intention to pursue his advantage. He paid her 
no voluntary visit, and even declined an invi¬ 
tation to tea, with which Mrs. Melmoth, after 
177 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


extensive preparations, had favored him. He 
seemed to have resumed all the habits of seclu¬ 
sion by which he was distinguished previous to 
his acquaintance with Ellen, except that he still 
took his sunset walk on the banks of the stream. 

On one of these occasions, he stayed his foot¬ 
steps by the old leafless oak which had witnessed 
Ellen's first meeting with the angler. Here he 
mused upon the circumstances that had resulted 
from that event, and upon the rights and privi¬ 
leges (for he was well aware of them all) which 
those circumstances had given him. Perhaps 
the loveliness of the scene and the recollections 
connected with it, perhaps the warm and mellow 
sunset, perhaps a temporary weakness in him¬ 
self, had softened his feelings, and shaken the 
firmness of his resolution to leave Ellen to be 
happy with his rival. His strong affections rose 
up against his reason, whispering that bliss — 
on earth and in heaven, through time and eter¬ 
nity— might yet be his lot with her. It is im¬ 
possible to conceive of the flood of momentary 
joy which the bare admission of such a possibil¬ 
ity sent through his frame ; and, just when the 
tide was highest in his heart, a soft little hand 
was laid upon his own, and, starting, he beheld 
Ellen at his side. 

Her illness, since the commencement of which 
Fanshawe had not seen her, had wrought a con¬ 
siderable but not a disadvantageous change in 
178 


FANSHAWE 


her appearance. She was paler and thinner; 
her countenance was more intellectual, more 
spiritual; and a spirit did the student almost 
deem her, appearing so suddenly in that soli¬ 
tude. There was a quick vibration of the deli¬ 
cate blood in her cheek, yet never brightening 
to the glow of perfect health ; a tear was glitter¬ 
ing on each of her long, dark eyelashes ; and 
there was a gentle tremor through all her frame, 
which compelled her, for a little space, to sup¬ 
port herself against the oak. Fanshawe's first 
impulse was to address her in words of rapturous 
delight; but he checked himself, and attempted 
— vainly, indeed — to clothe his voice in tones 
of calm courtesy. His remark merely expressed 
pleasure at her restoration to health; and Ellen’s 
low and indistinct reply had as little relation to 
the feelings that agitated her. 

Yet I fear,” continued Fanshawe, recovering 
a degree of composure, and desirous of assigning 
a motive (which he felt was not the true one) 
for Ellen’s agitation, — ‘‘I fear that your walk 
has extended too far for your strength.” 

‘Ht would have borne me farther, with such 
a motive,” she replied, still trembling, — ‘‘ to 
express my gratitude to my preserver.” 

‘Ht was needless, Ellen, it was needless ; for 
the deed brought with it its own reward ! ” 
exclaimed Fanshawe, with a vehemence that he 
could not repress. “ It was dangerous, for ” — 
179 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

Here he interrupted himself, and turned his 
face away. 

“ And wherefore was it dangerous ? inquired 
Ellen, laying her hand gently on his arm ; for 
he seemed about to leave her. 

“ Because you have a tender and generous 
heart, and I a weak one,” he replied. 

Not so,” answered she, with animation. 
“ Yours is a heart full of strength and nobleness; 
and if it have a weakness ” — 

“ You know well that it has, Ellen, — one 
that has swallowed up all its strength,” said Fan- 
shawe. “ Was it wise, then, to tempt it thus, 
when, if it yield, the result must be your own 
misery ? ” 

Ellen did not affect to misunderstand his 
meaning. On the contrary, with a noble frank¬ 
ness, she answered to what was implied rather 
than expressed. 

Do me not this wrong,” she said, blushing, 
yet earnestly. Can it be misery ? Will it not 
be happiness to form the tie that shall connect 
you to the world ? to be your guide—a humble 
one, it is true, but the one of your choice — to 
the quiet paths from which your proud and 
lonely thoughts have estranged you ? O, I 
know that there will be happiness in such a lot, 
from these and a thousand other sources ! ” 

The animation with which Ellen spoke, and, 
at the same time, a sense of the singular course 
i8o 


FANSHAWE 


to which her gratitude had impelled her, caused 
her beauty to grow brighter and more enchant¬ 
ing with every word. And when, as she con¬ 
cluded, she extended her hand to Fanshawe, to 
refuse it was like turning from an angel, who 
would have guided him to heaven. But, had 
he been capable of making the woman he loved 
a sacrifice to her own generosity, that act would 
have rendered him unworthy of her. Yet the 
struggle was a severe one ere he could reply. 

‘‘ You have spoken generously and nobly, 
Ellen,’’ he said. “ I have no way to prove that 
I deserve your generosity but by refusing to 
take advantage of it. Even if your heart were 
yet untouched, if no being more happily consti¬ 
tuted than myself had made an impression there, 
even then, I trust, a selfish passion would not 
be stronger than my integrity. But now ” — 
He would have proceeded, but the firmness 
which had hitherto sustained him gave way. 
He turned aside to hide the tears which all the 
pride of his nature could not restrain, and which, 
instead of relieving, added to his anguish. At 
length he resumed: “No, Ellen, we must part 
now and forever. Your life will be long and 
happy. Mine will be short, but not altogether 
wretched, nor shorter than if we had never met. 
When you hear that I am in my grave, do not 
imagine that you have hastened me thither. 
Think that you scattered bright dreams around 

i8i 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


my pathway, — an ideal happiness, that you 
would have sacrificed your own to realize.” 

He ceased; and Ellen felt that his determi¬ 
nation was unalterable. She could not speak ; 
but, taking his hand, she pressed it to her lips, 
and they saw each other no more. Mr. Lang- 
ton and his daughter shortly after returned to 
the seaport which, for several succeeding years, 
was their residence. 

After Ellen's departure, Fanshawe returned 
to his studies with the same absorbing ardor 
that had formerly characterized "him. His face 
was as seldom seen among the young and gay; 
the pure breeze and the blessed sunshine as sel¬ 
dom refreshed his pale and weary brow; and 
his lamp burned as constantly from the first 
shade of evening till the gray morning light 
began to dim its beams. Nor did he, as weak 
men will, treasure up his love in a hidden cham¬ 
ber of his breast. He was in reality the thought¬ 
ful and earnest student that he seemed. He 
had exerted the whole might of his spirit over 
itself, and he was a conqueror. Perhaps, in¬ 
deed, a summer breeze of sad and gentle 
thoughts would sometimes visit him ; but, in 
these brief memories of his love, he did not 
wish that it should be revived, or mourn over 
its event. 

There were many who felt an interest in 
182 


FANSHAWE 


Fanshawe ; but the influence of none could pre¬ 
vail upon him to lay aside the habits, mental 
and physical, by which he was bringing himself 
to the grave. His passage thither was conse¬ 
quently rapid, terminating just as he reached 
his twentieth year. His fellow students erected 
to his memory a monument of rough-hewn 
granite, with a white marble slab for the inscrip¬ 
tion. This was borrowed from the grave of 
Nathaniel Mather, whom, in his almost insane 
eagerness for knowledge, and in his early death, 
Fanshawe resembled. 

THE ASHES OF A HARD STUDENT 
AND A GOOD SCHOLAR 

Many tears were shed over his grave; but 
the thoughtful and the wise, though turf never 
covered a nobler heart, could not lament that it 
was so soon at rest. He left a world for which 
he was unfit; and we trust, that, among the 
innumerable stars of heaven, there is one where 
he has found happiness. 

Of the other personages of this tale, — Hugh 
Crombie, being exposed to no strong tempta¬ 
tions, lived and died an honest man. Con¬ 
cerning Dr. Melmoth it is unnecessary here 
to speak. The reader, if he have any curiosity 
upon the subject, is referred to his Life, which, 
together with several sermons and other pro- 

183 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


ductions of the doctor, was published by his 
successor in the presidency of Harley College, 
about the year 1768. 

It was not till four years after Fanshawe's 
death that Edward Walcott was united to Ellen 
Langton. Their future lives were uncommonly 
happy. Ellen’s gentle, almost imperceptible, 
but powerful influence drew her husband away 
from the passions and pursuits that would have 
interfered with domestic felicity ; and he never 
regretted the worldly distinction of which she 
thus deprived him. Theirs was a long life of 
calm and quiet bliss; and what matters it, that, 
except in these pages, they have left no name 
behind them ? 

184 


THE ANTIQUE RING 


Y es, indeed: the gem is as bright as a 
star, and curiously set,” said Clara 
Pemberton, examining an antique ring, 
which her betrothed lover had just presented to 
her, with a very pretty speech. ‘‘ It needs only 
one thing to make it perfect.” 

“ And what is that ? ” asked Mr. Edward 
Caryl, secretly anxious for the credit of his gift. 
“ A modern setting, perhaps ? ” 

“ O no ! That would destroy the charm at 
once,” replied Clara. ‘Mt needs nothing but 
a story. I long to know how many times it 
has been the pledge of faith between two lovers, 
and whether the vows, of which it was the sym¬ 
bol, were always kept or often broken. Not 
that I should be too scrupulous about facts. 
If you happen to be unacquainted with its 
authentic history, so much the better. May 
it not have sparkled upon a queen's finger ? 
Or who knows but it is the very ring which 
Posthumus received from Imogen ? In short, 
you must kindle your imagination at the 
lustre of this diamond, and make a legend for 
it.” 

Now such a task — and doubtless Clara knew 
185 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

it—was the most acceptable that could have 
been imposed on Edward Caryl. He was one 
of that multitude of young gentlemen — limbs, 
or rather twigs, of the law — whose names 
appear in gilt letters on the front of Tudor’s 
Buildings, and other places in the vicinity of the 
Court House, which seem to be the haunt of 
the gentler as well as the severer Muses. Ed¬ 
ward, in the dearth of clients, was accustomed 
to employ his much leisure in assisting the 
growth of American Literature, to which good 
cause he had contributed not a few quires of 
the finest letter paper, containing some thought, 
some fancy, some depth of feeling, together with 
a young writer’s abundance of conceits. Son¬ 
nets, stanzas of Tennysonian sweetness, tales 
imbued with German mysticism, versions from 
Jean Paul, criticisms of the old English poets, 
and essays smacking of Dialistic philosophy 
were among his multifarious productions. The 
editors of the fashionable periodicals were fa¬ 
miliar with his autography, and inscribed his 
name in those brilliant bead rolls of ink-stained 
celebrity which illustrate the first page of their 
covers. Nor did Fame withhold her laurel. 
Hillard had included him among the lights of 
the New England metropolis, in his Boston 
Book ; Bryant had found room for some of his 
stanzas, in the Selections from American Po¬ 
etry ; and Mr. Griswold, in his recent assem- 

i86 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

blage of the sons and daughters of song, had 
introduced Edward Caryl into the inner court 
of the temple, among his fourscore choicest 
bards. There was a prospect, indeed, of his 
assuming a still higher and more independent 
position. Interviews had been held with Tick- 
nor, and a correspondence with the Harpers, 
respecting a proposed volume, chiefly to con¬ 
sist of Mr. CaryFs fugitive pieces in the mag¬ 
azines, but to be accompanied with a poem of 
some length, never before published. Not im¬ 
probably, the public may yet be gratified with 
this collection. 

Meanwhile, we sum up our sketch of Edward 
Caryl by pronouncing him, though somewhat 
of a carpet knight in literature, yet no unfavor¬ 
able specimen of a generation of rising writers, 
whose spirit is such that we may reasonably 
expect creditable attempts from all, and good 
and beautiful results from some. And, it will 
be observed, Edward was the very man to write 
pretty legends, at a lady's instance, for an old- 
fashioned diamond ring. He took the jewel in 
his hand, and turned it so as to catch its scin¬ 
tillating radiance, as if hoping, in accordance 
with Clara's suggestion, to light up his fancy 
with that starlike gleam. 

“ Shall it be a ballad ? — a tale in verse ? " he 
inquired. Enchanted rings often glisten in 
old English poetry ; I think something may be 
187 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


done with the subject; but it is fitter for rhyme 
than prose/' 

“No, no," said Miss Pemberton, “ we will 
have no more rhyme than just enough for a 
posy to the ring. You must tell the legend in 
simple prose; and when it is finished, I will 
make a little party to hear it read." 

The young gentleman promised obedience ; 
and going to his pillow, with his head full of 
the familiar spirits that used to be worn in rings, 
watches, and sword hilts, he had the good for¬ 
tune to possess himself of an available idea in a 
dream. Connecting this with what he himself 
chanced to know of the ring's real history, his 
task was done. Clara Pemberton invited a se¬ 
lect few of her friends, all holding the stanchest 
faith in Edward's genius, and therefore the most 
genial auditors, if not altogether the fairest crit¬ 
ics, that a writer could possibly desire. Blessed 
be woman for her faculty of admiration, and 
especially for her tendency to admire with her 
heart, when man, at most, grants merely a cold 
approval with his mind ! 

Drawing his chair beneath the blaze of a solar 
lamp, Edward Caryl untied a roll of glossy 
paper, and began as follows : — 

THE LEGEND 

After the death warrant had been read to the 
Earl of Essex, and on the evening before his 

i88 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

appointed execution, the Countess of Shrews¬ 
bury paid his lordship a visit, and found him, 
as it appeared, toying childishly with a ring. 
The diamond that enriched it glittered like a 
little star, but with a singular tinge of red. The 
gloomy prison chamber in the Tower, with its 
deep and narrow windows piercing the walls of 
stone, was now all that the earl possessed of 
worldly prospect; so that there was the less 
wonder that he should look steadfastly into the 
gem, and moralize upon earth's deceitful splen¬ 
dor, as men in darkness and ruin seldom fail to 
do. But the shrewd observations of the coun¬ 
tess,— an artful and unprincipled woman,— 
the pretended friend of Essex, but who had 
come to glut her revenge for a deed of scorn 
which he himself had forgotten, — her keen eye 
detected a deeper interest attached to this jewel. 
Even while expressing his gratitude for her re¬ 
membrance of a ruined favorite and condemned 
criminal, the earl's glance reverted to the ring, 
as if all that remained of time and its affairs 
were collected within that small golden circlet. 

My dear lord," observed the countess, 
there is surely some matter of great moment 
wherewith this ring is connected, since it so ab¬ 
sorbs your mind. A token, it may be, of some 
fair lady's love, — alas, poor lady, once richest 
in possessing such a heart! Would you that 
the jewel be returned to her ? " 

189 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


‘‘ The queen ! the queen ! It was her Ma¬ 
jesty's own gift/' replied the earl, still gazing 
into the depths of the gem. “ She took it from 
her finger, and told me, with a smile, that it was 
an heirloom from her Tudor ancestors, and had 
once been the property of Merlin, the British 
wizard, who gave it to the lady of his love. 
His art had made this diamond the abiding 
place of a spirit, which, though of fiendish na¬ 
ture, was bound to work only good so long as 
the ring was an unviolated pledge of love and 
faith, both with the giver and receiver. But 
should love prove false, and faith be broken, 
then the evil spirit would work his own devil¬ 
ish will, until the ring were purified by becom¬ 
ing the medium of some good and holy act, 
and again the pledge of faithful love. The gem 
soon lost its virtue; for the wizard was mur¬ 
dered by the very lady to whom he gave it." 

‘‘ An idle legend ! " said the countess. 

It is so," answered Essex, with a melan¬ 
choly smile. Yet the queen's favor, of which 
this ring was the symbol, has proved my ruin. 
When death is nigh, men converse with dreams 
and shadows. I have been gazing into the dia¬ 
mond, and fancying — but you will laugh at me 
— that I might catch a glimpse of the evil spirit 
there. Do you observe this red glow, — dusky, 
too, amid all the brightness ? It is the token 
of his presence; and even now, methinks, it 
190 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

grows redder and duskier, like an angry sun¬ 
set/’ 

Nevertheless, the earl’s manner testified how 
slight was his credence in the enchanted pro¬ 
perties of the ring. But there is a kind of play¬ 
fulness that comes in moments of despair, when 
the reality of misfortune, if entirely felt, would 
crush the soul at once. He now, for a brief 
space, was lost in thought, while the countess 
contemplated him with malignant satisfaction. 

“ This ring,” he resumed, in another tone, 
“ alone remains of all that my royal mistress’s 
favor lavished upon her servant. My fortune 
once shone as brightly as the gem. And now, 
such a darkness has fallen around me, methinks 
it would be no marvel if its gleam — the sole 
light of my prison house — were to be forth¬ 
with extinguished inasmuch as my last earthly 
hope depends upon it.” 

“ How say you, my lord ? ” asked the Coun¬ 
tess of Shrewsbury. “ The stone is bright; 
but there should be strange magic in it, if it can 
keep your hopes alive, at this sad hour. Alas ! 
these iron bars and ramparts of the Tower are 
unlike to yield to such a spell.” 

Essex raised his head involuntarily ; for there 
was something in the countess’s tone that dis¬ 
turbed him, although he could not suspect that 
an enemy had intruded upon the sacred pri¬ 
vacy of a prisoner’s dungeon, to exult over so 
191 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


dark a ruin of such once brilliant fortunes. He 
looked her in the face, but saw nothing to awaken 
his distrust. It would have required a keener 
eye than even Cecil's to read the secret of a coun¬ 
tenance which had been worn so long in the false 
light of a court that it was now little better 
than a mask, telling any story save the true one. 
The condemned nobleman again bent over the 
ring, and proceeded : — 

‘Ht once had power in it, — this bright gem, 
— the magic that appertains to the talisman of 
a great queen's favor. She bade me, if hereafter 
I should fall into her disgrace, — how deep so¬ 
ever, and whatever might be the crime, — to 
convey this jewel to her sight, and it should 
plead for me. Doubtless, with her piercing 
judgment, she had even then detected the rash¬ 
ness of my nature, and foreboded some such 
deed as has now brought destruction upon my 
head. And knowing, too, her own hereditary 
rigor, she designed, it may be, that the memory 
of gentler and kindlier hours should soften her 
heart in my behalf, when my need should be 
the greatest. I have doubted, — I have dis¬ 
trusted,— yet who can tell, even now, what 
happy influence this ring might have ?" 

‘‘You have delayed full long to show the 
ring, and plead her Majesty's gracious promise," 
remarked the countess, — “ your state being 
what it is." 


192 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

True/* replied the earl; but for my honor’s 
sake, I was loath to entreat the queen’s mercy, 
while I might hope for life, at least, from the 
justice of the laws. If, on a trial by my peers, 
I had been acquitted of meditating violence 
against her sacred life, then would I have fallen 
at her feet, and, presenting the jewel, have 
prayed no other favor than that my love and 
zeal should be put to the severest test. But 
now — it were confessing too much — it were 
cringing too low—to beg the miserable gift of 
life, on no other score than the tenderness which 
her Majesty deems me to have forfeited ! ” 
‘‘Yet it is your only hope,” said the countess. 
“ And besides,” continued Essex, pursuing 
his own reflections, “ of what avail will be this 
token of womanly feeling, when, on the other 
hand, are arrayed the all-prevailing motives of 
state policy, and the artifices and intrigues of 
courtiers, to consummate my downfall ? Will 
Cecil or Raleigh suffer her heart to act for it¬ 
self, even if the spirit of her father were not in 
her ? It is in vain to hope it.” 

But still Essex gazed at the ring with an ab¬ 
sorbed attention, that proved how much hope 
his sanguine temperament had concentrated here, 
when there was none else for him in the wide 
world, save what lay in the compass of that hoop 
of gold. The spark of brightness within the 
diamond, which gleamed like an intenser than 

193 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

earthly fire, was the memorial of his dazzling 
career. It had not paled with the waning sun¬ 
shine of his mistress’s favor; on the contrary, in 
spite of its remarkable tinge of dusky red, he 
fancied that it never shone so brightly. The 
glow of festal torches, — the blaze of perfumed 
lamps, —bonfires that had been kindled for him, 
when he was the darling of the people, — the 
splendor of the royal court, where he had been 
the peculiar star, — all seemed to have collected 
their moral or material glory into the gem, and 
to burn with a radiance caught from the future 
as well as gathered from the past. That radi¬ 
ance might break forth again. Bursting from 
the diamond, into which it was now narrowed, 
it might beam first upon the gloomy walls of the 
Tower, — then wider, wider, wider, — till all 
England, and the seas around her cliffs, should 
be gladdened with the light. It was such an 
ecstasy as often ensues after long depression, 
and has been supposed to precede the circum¬ 
stances of darkest fate that may befall mortal 
man. The earl pressed the ring to his heart, as 
if it were indeed a talisman, the habitation of a 
spirit, as the queen had playfully assured him, 
— but a spirit of happier influences than her 
legend spake of. 

‘‘ O, could I but make my way to her foot¬ 
stool ! ” cried he, waving his hand aloft, while 
he paced the stone pavement of his prison 
194 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

chamber with an Impetuous step. “ I might 
kneel down, indeed, a ruined man, condemned 
to the block, but how should I rise again ? 
Once more the favorite of Elizabeth ! — Eng¬ 
land's proudest noble ! — with such prospects as 
ambition never aimed at! Why have I tarried 
so long in this weary dungeon ? The ring has 
power to set me free ! The palace wants me ! 
Ho, jailer, unbar the door ! ” 

But then occurred the recollection of the 
impossibility of obtaining an interview with his 
fatally estranged mistress, and testing the influ¬ 
ence over her affections, which he still flattered 
himself with possessing. Could he step beyond 
the limits of his prison, the world would be all 
sunshine ; but here was only gloom and death. 

Alas ! ” said he slowly and sadly, letting 
his head fall upon his hands. ‘‘ 1 die for the 
lack of one blessed word." 

The Countess of Shrewsbury, herself forgot¬ 
ten amid the earl's gorgeous visions, had watched 
him with an aspect that could have betrayed 
nothing to the most suspicious observer; unless 
that it was too calm for humanity, while wit¬ 
nessing the flutterings, as it were, of a generous 
heart in the death agony. She now approached 
him. 

My good lord," she said, ‘‘what mean you 
to do ?" 

“Nothing,—my deeds are done!" replied 

195 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


he despondingly. “Yet, had a fallen favorite 
any friends, I would entreat one of them to lay 
this ring at her Majesty's feet; albeit with little 
hope, save that, hereafter, it might remind her 
that poor Essex, once far too highly favored, 
was at last too severely dealt with." 

“ I will be that friend," said the countess. 
“There is no time to be lost. Trust this pre¬ 
cious ring with me. This very night the queen’s 
eye shall rest upon it; nor shall the efficacy of 
my poor words be wanting, to strengthen the 
impression which it will doubtless make." 

The earl’s first impulse was to hold out the 
ring. But looking at the countess, as she bent 
forward to receive it, he fancied that the red glow 
of the gem tinged all her face, and gave it an 
ominous expression. Many passages of past 
times recurred to his memory. A preternatural 
insight, perchance caught from approaching 
death, threw its momentary gleam, as from a 
meteor, all round his position. 

“ Countess," he said, “ I know not wherefore 
I hesitate, being in a plight so desperate, and 
having so little choice of friends. But have you 
looked into your own heart ? Can you perform 
this office with the truth — the earnestness — 
the zeal — even to tears and agony of spirit — 
wherewith the holy gift of human life should be 
pleaded for? Woe be unto you, should you 
undertake this task, and deal towards me other- 
196 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

wise than with utmost faith ! For your own 
souEs sake, and as you would have peace at your 
death hour, consider well in what spirit you 
receive this ring !'' 

The countess did not shrink. 

‘‘My lord ! — my good lord ! '' — she ex¬ 
claimed, “ wrong not a woman's heart by these 
suspicions. You might choose another messen¬ 
ger ; but who, save a lady of her bedchamber, 
can obtain access to the queen at this untimely 
hour? It is for your life, — for your life — 
else I would not renew my offer." 

“ Take the ring," said the earl. 

“ Believe that it shall be in the queen's hands 
before the lapse of another hour," replied the 
countess, as she received this sacred trust of life 
and death. “ To-morrow morning look for the 
result of my intercession." 

She departed. Again the earl's hopes rose 
high. Dreams visited his slumber, not of the 
sable-decked scaffold in the Tower yard, but of 
canopies of state, obsequious courtiers, pomp, 
splendor, the smile of the once more gracious 
queen, and a light beaming from the magic gem, 
which illuminated his whole future. 

History records how foully the Countess of 
Shrewsbury betrayed the trust which Essex, in 
his utmost need, confided to her. She kept the 
ring, and stood in the presence of Elizabeth, 
that night, without one attempt to soften her 
197 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


stern hereditary temper in behalf of the former 
favorite. The next day the earl's noble head 
rolled upon the scaffold. On her deathbed, 
tortured, at last, with a sense of the dreadful 
guilt which she had taken upon her soul, the 
wicked countess sent for Elizabeth, revealed the 
story of the ring, and besought forgiveness for 
her treachery. But the queen, still obdurate, 
even while remorse for past obduracy was tug¬ 
ging at her heartstrings, shook the dying wo¬ 
man in her bed, as if struggling with death for 
the privilege of wreaking her revenge and spite. 
The spirit of the countess passed away, to 
undergo the justice, or receive the mercy, of a 
higher tribunal; and tradition says, that the 
fatal ring was found upon her breast, where it 
had imprinted a dark red circle, resembling the 
effect of the intensest heat. The attendants, 
who prepared the body for burial, shuddered, 
whispering one to another, that the ring must 
have derived its heat from the glow of infernal 
fire. They left it on her breast, in the coffin, 
and it went with that guilty woman to the tomb. 

Many years afterward, when the church that 
contained the monuments of the Shrewsbury 
family was desecrated by Cromwell’s soldiers, 
they broke open the ancestral vaults, and stole 
whatever was valuable from the noble person¬ 
ages who reposed there. Merlin’s antique ring 
passed into the possession of a stout sergeant 
198 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

of the Ironsides, who thus became subject to 
the influences of the evil spirit that still kept 
his abode within the gem's enchanted depths. 
The sergeant was soon slain in battle, thus 
transmitting the ring, though without any legal 
form of testament, to a gay cavalier, who forth¬ 
with pawned it, and expended the money in 
liquor, which speedily brought him to the grave. 
We next catch the sparkle of the magic diamond 
at various epochs of the merry reign of Charles 
the Second. But its sinister fortune still at¬ 
tended it. From whatever hand this ring of 
portent came, and whatever finger it encircled, 
ever it was the pledge of deceit between man 
and man, or man and woman, of faithless vows 
and unhallowed passion ; and whether to lords 
and ladies or to village maids, — for sometimes it 
found its way so low, — still it brought nothing 
but sorrow and disgrace. No purifying deed 
was done, to drive the fiend from his bright 
home in this little star. Again, we hear of it, 
at a later period, when Sir Robert Walpole be¬ 
stowed the ring, among far richer jewels, on the 
lady of a British legislator, whose political honor 
he wished to undermine. Many a dismal and 
unhappy tale might be wrought out of its other 
adventures. All this while, its ominous tinge 
of dusky red had been deepening and darken¬ 
ing, until, if laid upon white paper, it cast the 
mingled hue of night and blood, strangely illu- 
199 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


minated with scintillating light, in a circle round 
about. But this peculiarity only made it the 
more valuable. 

Alas, the fatal ring ! When shall its dark 
secret be discovered, and the doom of ill, in¬ 
herited from one possessor to another, be finally 
revoked ? 

The legend now crosses the Atlantic, and 
comes down to our own immediate time. In a 
certain church of our city, not many evenings 
ago, there was a contribution for a charitable ob¬ 
ject. A fervid preacher had poured out his whole 
soul in a rich and tender discourse, which had 
at least excited the tears, and perhaps the more 
effectual sympathy, of a numerous audience. 
While the choristers sang sweetly, and the organ 
poured forth its melodious thunder, the dea¬ 
cons passed up and down the aisles and along 
the galleries, presenting their mahogany boxes, 
in which each person deposited whatever sum 
he deemed it safe to lend to the Lord, in aid 
of human wretchedness. Charity became audi¬ 
ble, — chink, chink, chink, — as it fell, drop 
by drop, into the common receptacle. There 
was a hum, — a stir, — the subdued bustle of 
people putting their hands into their pockets ; 
while, ever and anon, a vagrant coin fell upon 
the floor and rolled away, with long reverbera¬ 
tion, into some inscrutable corner. 

At length, all having been favored with an op- 
200 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

portunity to be generous, the two deacons placed 
their boxes on the communion table, and thence, 
at the conclusion of the services, removed them 
into the vestry. Here these good old gentle¬ 
men sat down together, to reckon the accumu¬ 
lated treasure. 

‘‘ Fie, fie. Brother Tilton,'' said Deacon 
Trott, peeping into Deacon Tilton's box, what 
a heap of copper you have picked up ! Really, 
for an old man, you must have had a heavy job 
to lug it along. Copper! copper ! copper ! Do 
people expect to get admittance into heaven at 
the price of a few coppers ? " 

Don't wrong them, brother," answered Dea¬ 
con Tilton, a simple and kindly old man. 
“ Copper may do more for one person than gold 
will for another. In the galleries, where I pre¬ 
sent my box, we must not expect such a har¬ 
vest as you gather among the gentry in the 
broad aisle, and all over the floor of the church. 
My people are chiefly poor mechanics and la¬ 
borers, sailors, seamstresses, and servant maids, 
with a most uncomfortable intermixture of 
roguish schoolboys." 

‘‘ Well, well," said Deacon Trott; but there 
is a great deal. Brother Tilton, in the method 
of presenting a contribution box. It is a knack 
that comes by nature, or not at all." 

They now proceeded to sum up the avails 
of the evening, beginning with the receipts 
201 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


of Deacon Trott. In good sooth, that wor¬ 
thy personage had reaped an abundant har¬ 
vest, in which he prided himself no less, appar¬ 
ently, than if every dollar had been contributed 
from his own individual pocket. Had the good 
deacon been meditating a jaunt to Texas, the 
treasures of the mahogany box might have sent 
him on his way rejoicing. There were bank 
notes ; mostly, it is true, of the smallest denom¬ 
ination in the giver s pocketbook, yet making 
a goodly average upon the whole. The most 
splendid contribution was a check for a hundred 
dollars, bearing the name of a distinguished 
merchant, whose liberality was duly celebrated 
in the newspapers of the next day. No less 
than seven half-eagles, together with an English 
sovereign, glittered amidst an indiscriminate 
heap of silver; the box being polluted with no¬ 
thing of the copper kind, except a single bright 
new cent, wherewith a little boy had performed 
his first charitable act. 

‘‘ Very well ! very well indeed ! ” said Deacon 
Trott self-approvingly. ‘‘A handsome even¬ 
ing's work ! And now. Brother Tilton, let's 
see whether you can match it." Here was a 
sad contrast! They poured forth Deacon Til¬ 
ton's treasure upon the table, and it really 
seemed as if the whole copper coinage of the 
country, together with an amazing quantity of 
shopkeeper's tokens, and English and Irish 
202 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

halfpence, mostly of base metal, had been con¬ 
gregated into the box. There was a very sub¬ 
stantial pencil case and the semblance of a shil¬ 
ling ; but the latter proved to be made of tin, 
and the former of German silver. A gilded 
brass button was doing duty as a gold coin, and 
a folded shop bill had assumed the character 
of a bank note. But Deacon Tilton’s feelings 
were much revived by the aspect of another 
bank note, new and crisp, adorned with beauti¬ 
ful engravings, and stamped with the indubita¬ 
ble word Twenty, in large black letters. Alas ! 
it was a counterfeit. In short, the poor old 
deacon was no less unfortunate than those who 
trade with fairies, and whose gains are sure to be 
transformed into dried leaves, pebbles, and other 
valuables of that kind. 

I believe the Evil One is in the box,” said 
he, with some vexation. 

“ Well done. Deacon Tilton! ” cried his 
Brother Trott, with a hearty laugh. “ You 
ought to have a statue in copper.” 

‘‘Never mind, brother,” replied the good 
deacon, recovering his temper. “ I ’ll bestow 
ten dollars from my own pocket, and may Hea¬ 
ven’s blessing go along with it. But look ! 
what do you call this ? ” 

Under the copper mountain, which it had cost 
them so much toil to remove, lay an antique 
ring ! It was enriched with a diamond, which, 
203 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


so soon as it caught the light, began to twinkle 
and glimmer, emitting the whitest and purest lus¬ 
tre that could possibly be conceived. It was as 
brilliant as if some magician had condensed the 
brightest star in heaven into a compass fit to be 
set in a ring, for a lady's delicate finger. 

How is this ? " said Deacon Trott, examin¬ 
ing it carefully, in the expectation of finding it 
as worthless as the rest of his colleague's trea¬ 
sure. Why, upon my word, this seems to be a 
real diamond, and of the purest water. Whence 
could it have come ?" 

Really, I cannot tell," quoth Deacon Tilton, 
“ for my spectacles were so misty that all faces 
looked alike. But now I remember, there was 
a flash of light came from the box, at one mo¬ 
ment ; but it seemed a dusky red, instead of a 
pure white, like the sparkle of this gem. Well, 
the ring will make up for the copper; but I wish 
the giver had thrown its history into the box 
along with it." 

It has been our good luck to recover a por¬ 
tion of that history. After transmitting misfor¬ 
tune from one possessor to another, ever since 
the days of British Merlin, the identical ring 
which Queen Elizabeth gave to the Earl of Es¬ 
sex was finally thrown into the contribution box 
of a New England church. The two deacons 
deposited it in the glass case of a fashionable jew¬ 
eller, of whom it was purchased by the humble 
204 


THE ANTIQUE RING 

rehearser of this legend, in the hope that it may¬ 
be allowed to sparkle on a fair lady's finger. 
Purified from the foul fiend, so long its inhabit¬ 
ant, by a deed of unostentatious charity, and 
now made the symbol of faithful and devoted 
love, the gentle bosom of its new possessor need 
fear no sorrow from its influence. 

Very pretty ! — Beautiful! — How origi¬ 
nal ! — How sweetly written ! — What nature ! 
— What imagination ! — What power ! — 
What pathos ! — What exquisite humor ! " — 
were the exclamations of Edward Caryl's kind 
and generous auditors, at the conclusion of the 
legend. 

“It is a pretty tale," said Miss Pemberton, 
who, conscious that her praise was to that of all 
others as a diamond to a pebble, was therefore 
the less liberal in awarding it. “ It is really a 
pretty tale, and very proper for any of the An¬ 
nuals. But, Edward, your moral does not sat¬ 
isfy me. What thought did you embody in 
the ring ?" 

“ O Clara, this is too bad ! " replied Edward, 
with a half-reproachful smile. “You know that 
I can never separate the idea from the symbol in 
which it manifests itself. However, we may sup¬ 
pose the Gem to be the human Heart, and the 
Evil Spirit to be Falsehood, which, in one guise 
or another, is the fiend that causes all the sorrow 
205 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


and trouble in the world. I beseech you to let 
this suffice.*' 

It shall," said Clara kindly. And, be¬ 
lieve me, whatever the world may say of the 
story, I prize it far above the diamond which 
enkindled your imagination." 

206 


AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 


I N the house where I was born, there used 
to be an old woman crouching all day long 
over the kitchen fire, with her elbows on her 
knees and her feet in the ashes. Once in a while 
she took a turn at the spit, and she never lacked 
a coarse gray stocking in her lap, the foot about 
half finished; it tapered away with her own wan¬ 
ing life, and she knit the toe stitch on the day 
of her death. She made it her serious business 
and sole amusement to tell me stories at any 
time from morning till night, in a mumbling, 
toothless voice, as I sat on a log of wood, grasp¬ 
ing her check apron in both my hands. Her 
personal memory included the better part of a 
hundred years, and she had strangely jumbled 
her own experience and observation with those 
of many old people who died in her young days; 
so that she might have been taken for a con¬ 
temporary of Queen Elizabeth, or of John Ro¬ 
gers in the Primer. There are a thousand of 
her traditions lurking in the corners and by¬ 
places of my mind, some more marvellous than 
what is to follow, some less so, and a few not 
marvellous in the least, all of which I should 
like to repeat, if I were as happy as she in hav- 
207 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

ing a listener. But I am humble enough to 
own, that I do not deserve a listener half so well 
as that old toothless woman, whose narratives 
possessed an excellence attributable neither to 
herself nor to any single individual. Her 
ground plots, seldom within the widest scope of 
probability, were filled up with homely and nat¬ 
ural incidents, the gradual accretions of a long 
course of years, and fiction hid its grotesque ex¬ 
travagance in this garb of ^truth, like the Devil 
(an appropriate simile, for the old woman sup¬ 
plies it) disguising himself, cloven foot and all, 
in mortal attire. These tales generally referred 
to her birthplace, a village in the valley of the 
Connecticut, the aspect of which she impressed 
with great vividness on my fancy. The houses 
in that tract of country, long a wild and dan¬ 
gerous frontier, were rendered defensible by a 
strength of architecture that has preserved many 
of them till our own times, and I cannot de¬ 
scribe the sort of pleasure with which, two sum¬ 
mers since, I rode through the little town in 
question, while one object after another rose 
familiarly to my eye, like successive portions 
of a dream becoming realized. Among other 
things equally probable, she was wont to assert 
that all the inhabitants of this village (at certain 
intervals, but whether of twenty-five or fifty 
years, or a whole century, remained a disputa¬ 
ble point) were subject to a simultaneous slum- 
208 


AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 


ber, continuing one hour’s space. When that 
mysterious time arrived, the parson snored over 
his half-written sermon, though it were Satur¬ 
day night and no provision made for the mor¬ 
row, — the mother’s eyelids closed as she bent 
over her infant, and no childish cry awakened, 
— the watcher at the bed of mortal sickness 
slumbered upon the death pillow, — and the 
dying man anticipated his sleep of ages by one 
as deep and dreamless. To speak emphatically, 
there was a soporific influence throughout the 
village, stronger than if every mother’s son and 
daughter were reading a dull story; notwith¬ 
standing which the old woman professed to 
hold the substance of the ensuing account from 
one of those principally concerned in it. 

One moonlight summer evening, a young 
man and a girl sat down together in the open 
air. They were distant relatives, sprung from a 
stock once wealthy, but of late years so poverty- 
stricken, that David had not a penny to pay 
the marriage fee, if Esther should consent to 
wed. The seat they had chosen was in an open 
grove of elm and walnut trees, at a right angle 
of the road; a spring of diamond water just 
bubbled into the moonlight beside them, and 
then whimpered away through the bushes and 
long grass, in search of a neighboring mill 
stream. The nearest house (situate within 
209 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


twenty yards of them, and the residence of their 
great-grandfather in his lifetime) was a vener¬ 
able old edifice, crowned with many high and 
narrow peaks, all overrun by innumerable creep¬ 
ing plants, which hung curling about the roof 
like a nice young wig on an elderly gentleman’s 
head. Opposite to this establishment was a 
tavern, with a well and horse-trough before it, 
and a low green bank running along the left side 
of the door. Thence, the road went onward, 
curving scarce perceptibly, through the village, 
divided in the midst by a narrow lane of ver¬ 
dure, and bounded on each side by a grassy 
strip of twice its own breadth. The houses had 
generally an odd look. Here, the moonlight 
tried to get a glimpse of one, a rough old heap 
of ponderous timber, which, ashamed of its di¬ 
lapidated aspect, was hiding behind a great thick 
tree; the lower story of the next had sunk al¬ 
most under ground, as if the poor little house 
were a-weary of the world, and retiring into the 
seclusion of its own cellar; farther on stood one 
of the few recent structures, thrusting its painted 
face conspicuously into the street, with an evi¬ 
dent idea that it was the fairest thing there. 
About midway in the village was a gristmill, 
partly concealed by the descent of the ground 
towards the stream which turned its wheel. At 
the southern extremity, just so far distant that 
the window panes dazzled into each other, rose 
210 


AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 


the meeting-house, a dingy old barnlike build¬ 
ing, with an enormously disproportioned stee¬ 
ple sticking up straight into heaven, as high as 
the Tower of Babel, and the cause of nearly as 
much confusion in its day. This steeple, it 
must be understood, was an afterthought, and 
its addition to the main edifice, when the latter 
had already begun to decay, had excited a vehe¬ 
ment quarrel, and almost a schism in the church, 
some fifty years before. Here the road wound 
down a hill, and was seen no more, the remot¬ 
est object in view being the graveyard gate, 
beyond the meeting-house. The youthful pair 
sat hand in hand beneath the trees, and for sev¬ 
eral moments they had not spoken, because the 
breeze was hushed, the brook scarce tinkled, 
the leaves had ceased their rustling, and every¬ 
thing lay motionless and silent as if Nature were 
composing herself to slumber. 

‘‘ What a beautiful night it is, Esther! re¬ 
marked David, somewhat drowsily. 

“ Very beautiful,*' answered the girl, in the 
same tone. 

‘‘ But how still! " continued David. 

“ Ah, too still! ” said Esther, with a faint 
shudder, like a modest leaf when the wind 
kisses it. 

Perhaps they fell asleep together, and, united 
as their spirits were by close and tender sym¬ 
pathies, the same strange dream might have 

2II 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

wrapped them in its shadowy arms. But they 
conceived, at the time, that they still remained 
wakeful by the spring of bubbling water, look¬ 
ing down through the village, and all along the 
moon-lighted road, and at the queer old houses, 
and at the trees, which thrust their great twisted 
branches almost into the windows. There was 
only a sort of mistiness over their minds, like 
the smoky air of an early autumn night. At 
length, without any vivid astonishment, they 
became conscious that a great many people were 
either entering the village or already in the 
street; but whether they came from the meeting¬ 
house, or from a little beyond it, or where the 
devil they came from, was more than could be 
determined. Certainly a crowd of people seemed 
to be there, men, women, and children, all of 
whom were yawning and rubbing their eyes, 
stretching their limbs, and staggering from side 
to side of the road, as if but partially awakened 
from a sound slumber. Sometimes they stood 
stock-still, with their hands over their brows to 
shade their sight from the moonbeams. As they 
drew near, most of their countenances appeared 
familiar to Esther and David, possessing the pe¬ 
culiar features of families in the village, and that 
general air and aspect by which a person would 
recognize his own townsmen in the remotest 
ends of the earth. But though the whole mul¬ 
titude might have been taken, in the mass, for 
212 


AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 

neighbors and acquaintances, there was not a 
single individual whose exact likeness they had 
ever before seen. It was a noticeable circum¬ 
stance, also, that the newest-fashioned garment 
on the backs of these people might have been 
worn by the great-grandparents of the existing 
generation. There was one figure behind all 
the rest, and not yet near enough to be per¬ 
fectly distinguished. 

‘‘Where on earth, David, do all these odd 
people come from ? ” said Esther, with a lazy 
inclination to laugh. 

“ Nowhere on earth, Esther,” replied David, 
unknowing why he said so. 

As they spoke, the strangers showed some 
symptoms of disquietude, and looked towards 
the fountain for an instant, but immediately 
appeared to assume their own trains of thought 
and previous purposes. They now separated 
to different parts of the village, with a readiness 
that implied intimate local knowledge; and it 
may be worthy of remark, that, though they were 
evidently loquacious among themselves, neither 
their footsteps nor their voices reached the ears 
of the beholders. Wherever there was a ven¬ 
erable old house, of fifty years’ standing and 
upwards, surrounded by its elm or walnut trees, 
with its dark and weather-beaten barn, its well, 
its orchard and stone walls, all ancient and all 
in good repair around it, there a little group 
213 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

of these people assembled. Such parties were 
mostly composed of an aged man and woman, 
with the younger members of a family; their 
faces were full of joy, so deep that it assumed 
the shade of melancholy; they pointed to each 
other the minutest objects about the home¬ 
steads, things in their hearts, and were now 
comparing them with the originals. But where 
hollow places by the wayside, grass-grown and 
uneven, with unsightly chimneys rising ruinous 
in the midst, gave indications of a fallen dwell¬ 
ing and of hearths long cold, there did a few of 
the strangers sit them down on the mouldering 
beams, and on the yellow moss that had over¬ 
spread the doorstone. The men folded their 
arms, sad and speechless; the women wrung 
their hands with a more vivid expression of grief; 
and the little children tottered to their knees, 
shrinking away from the open grave of domestic 
love. And wherever a recent edifice reared its 
white and flashy front on the foundation of an 
old one, there a gray-haired man might be seen 
to shake his staff in anger at it, while his aged 
dame and their offspring appeared to join in 
their maledictions, forming a fearful picture in 
the ghostly moonlight. While these scenes 
were passing, the one figure in the rear of all the 
rest was descending the hollow towards the mill, 
and the eyes of David and Esther were drawn 
thence to a pair with whom they could fully 
214 


AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 


sympathize. It was a youth in a sailor's dress 
and a pale slender maiden, who met each other 
with a sweet embrace in the middle of the street. 

“ How long it must be since they parted ! " 
observed David. 

“ Fifty years at least,” said Esther. 

They continued to gaze with wondering 
calmness and quiet interest, as the dream (if 
such it were) unrolled its quaint and motley 
semblance before them, and their notice was 
now attracted by several little knots of people 
apparently engaged in conversation. Of these 
one of the earliest collected and most character¬ 
istic was near the tavern, the persons who com¬ 
posed it being seated on the low green bank 
along the left side of the door. A conspicuous 
figure here was a fine corpulent old fellow in 
his shirt sleeves and flame-colored breeches, and 
with a stained white apron over his paunch, be¬ 
neath which he held his hands, and wherewith 
at times he wiped his ruddy face. The stately 
decrepitude of one of his companions, the scar 
of an Indian tomahawk on his crown, and es¬ 
pecially his worn buff coat, were appropriate 
marks of a veteran belonging to an old Provin¬ 
cial garrison, now deaf to the roll call. Another 
showed his rough face under a tarry hat and 
wore a pair of wide trousers, like an ancient 
mariner who had tossed away his youth upon 
the sea, and was returned, hoary and weather- 
215 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

beaten, to his inland home. There was also a 
thin young man, carelessly dressed, who ever 
and anon cast a sad look towards the pale maiden 
above mentioned. With these there sat a hun¬ 
ter and one or two others, and they were soon 
joined by a miller, who came upward from the 
dusty mill, his coat as white as if besprinkled 
with powdered starlight. All these (by the aid 
of jests, which might indeed be old, but had not 
been recently repeated) waxed very merry, and 
it was rather strange that just as their sides 
shook with the heartiest laughter, they appeared 
greatly like a group of shadows flickering in the 
moonshine. Four personages, very different 
from these, stood in front of the large house 
with its periwig of creeping plants. One was a 
little elderly figure, distinguished by the gold 
on his three-cornered hat and sky-blue coat, 
and by the seal of arms annexed to his great 
gold watch chain ; his air and aspect befitted 
a justice of peace and county major, and all 
earth’s pride and pomposity were squeezed into 
this small gentleman of five feet high. The 
next in importance was a grave person of sixty 
or seventy years, whose black suit and band 
sufficiently indicated his character, and the pol¬ 
ished baldness of whose head was worthy of a 
famous preacher in the village, half a century 
before, who had made wigs a subject of pulpit 
denunciation. The two other figures, both clad 
216 


AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 

in dark gray, showed the sobriety of deacons: 
one was ridiculously tall and thin, like a man of 
ordinary bulk infinitely produced, as the mathe¬ 
maticians say; while the brevity and thickness 
of his colleague seemed a compression of the 
same man. These four talked with great ear¬ 
nestness, and their gestures intimated that they 
had revived the ancient dispute about the meet¬ 
ing-house steeple. The grave person in black 
spoke with composed solemnity, as if he were 
addressing a Synod; the short deacon grunted 
out occasional sentences, as brief as himself; 
his tall brother drew the long thread of his ar¬ 
gument through the whole discussion, and (rea¬ 
soning from analogy) his voice must indubi¬ 
tably have been small and squeaking. But 
the little old man in gold lace was evidently 
scorched by his own red-hot eloquence; he 
bounced from one to another, shook his cane 
at the steeple, at the two deacons, and almost 
in the parson’s face, stamping with his foot 
fiercely enough to break a hole through the 
very earth, — though, indeed, it could not ex¬ 
actly be said that the green grass bent beneath 
him. The figure noticed as coming behind 
all the rest had now surmounted the ascent 
from the mill, and proved to be an elderly lady 
with something in her hand. 

‘‘ Why does she walk so slow ? ” asked David. 

Don’t you see she is lame ? ” said Esther. 

217 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

This gentlewoman, whose infirmity had kept 
her so far in the rear of the crowd, now came 
hobbling on, glided unobserved by the polemic 
group, and paused on the left brink of the foun¬ 
tain, within a few feet of the two spectators. 
She was a magnificent old dame as ever mortal 
eye beheld. Her spangled shoes and gold- 
clocked stockings shone gloriously within the 
spacious circle of a red hoop petticoat, which 
swelled to the very point of explosion, and was 
bedecked all over with embroidery a little tar¬ 
nished. Above the petticoat, and parting in 
front so as to display it to the best advantage, 
was a figured blue damask gown. A wide and 
stiff ruff encircled her neck; a cap of the finest 
muslin, though rather dingy, covered her head; 
and her nose was bestridden by a pair of gold- 
bowed spectacles with enormous glasses. But 
the old lady’s face was pinched, sharp, and sal¬ 
low, wearing a niggardly and avaricious expres¬ 
sion, and forming an odd contrast to the splen¬ 
dor of her attire, as did likewise the implement 
which she held in her hand. It was a sort of 
iron shovel (by housewives termed a ‘‘ slice ”), 
such as is used in clearing the oven, and with 
this, selecting a spot between a walnut-tree and 
the fountain, the good dame made an earnest 
attempt to dig. The tender sods, however, 
possessed a strange impenetrability. They re¬ 
sisted her efforts like a quarry of living granite, 
218 


AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 


and, losing her breath, she cast down the shovel 
and seemed to bemoan herself most piteously, 
gnashing her teeth (what few she had) and 
wringing her thin yellow hands. Then, appar¬ 
ently with new hope, she resumed her toil, 
which still had the same result, — a circum¬ 
stance the less surprising to David and Esther 
because at times they would catch the moon¬ 
light shining through the old woman and dan¬ 
cing in the fountain beyond. The little man in 
gold lace now happened to see her, and made 
his approach on tiptoe. 

How hard this elderly lady works! ” re¬ 
marked David. 

“ Go and help her, David,” said Esther com¬ 
passionately. 

As their drowsy voices spoke, both the old 
woman and the pompous little figure behind 
her lifted their eyes, and for a moment they re¬ 
garded the youth and damsel with something 
like kindness and affection ; which, however, 
were dim and uncertain, and passed away almost 
immediately. The old woman again betook her¬ 
self to the shovel, but was startled by a hand 
suddenly laid upon her shoulder; she turned 
round in great trepidation, and beheld the dig¬ 
nitary in the blue coat; then followed an em¬ 
brace of such closeness as would indicate no re¬ 
moter connection than matrimony between these 
two decorous persons. The gentleman next 
219 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

pointed to the shovel, appearing to inquire the 
purpose of his lady*s occupation ; while she as 
evidently parried his interrogatories, maintaining 
a demure and sanctified visage, as every good 
woman ought, in similar cases. Howbeit, she 
could not forbear looking askew, behind her 
spectacles, towards the spot of stubborn turf. 
All the while, their figures had a strangeness in 
them, and it seemed as if some cunning jewel¬ 
ler had made their golden ornajments of the yel¬ 
lowest of the setting sunbeams, and that the 
blue of their garments was brought from the 
dark sky near the moon, and that the gentle¬ 
man’s silk waistcoat was the bright side of a 
fiery cloud, and the lady’s scarlet petticoat a 
remnant of the blush of morning,—and that 
they both were two unrealities of colored air. 
But now there was a sudden movement through¬ 
out the multitude. The squire drew forth a 
watch as large as the dial on the famous stee¬ 
ple, looked at the warning hands, and got him 
gone, nor could his lady tarry ; the party at the 
tavern door took to their heels, headed by the 
fat man in the flaming breeches ; the tall dea¬ 
con stalked away immediately, and the short 
deacon waddled after, making four steps to the 
yard; the mothers called their children about 
them and set forth, with a gentle and sad glance 
behind. Like cloudy fantasies that hurry by a 
viewless impulse from the sky, they all were 
220 


How hard this elderly lady works 



















AN OLD WOMAN’S TALE 


fled, and the wind rose up and followed them 
with a strange moaning down the lonely street. 
Now whither these people went is more than 
may be told ; only David and Esther seemed to 
see the shadowy splendor of the ancient dame, 
as she lingered in the moonshine at the grave¬ 
yard gate, gazing backward to the fountain. 

‘‘ O Esther ! I have had such a dream ! ” 
cried David, starting up and rubbing his eyes. 

‘‘ And I such another! answered Esther, 
gaping till her pretty red lips formed a circle. 

About an old woman with gold-bowed spec¬ 
tacles,*' continued David. 

“ And a scarlet hoop petticoat,” added Es¬ 
ther. They now stared in each other’s eyes, 
with great astonishment and some little fear. 
After a thoughtful moment or two, David drew 
a long breath and stood upright. 

‘‘ If I live till to-morrow morning,” said he, 
“ I ’ll see what may be buried between that tree 
and the spring of water.” 

“ And why not to-night, David ? ” asked 
Esther; for she was a sensible little girl, and 
bethought herself that the matter might as well 
be done in secrecy. 

David felt the propriety of the remark, and 
looked round for the means of following her 
advice. The moon shone brightly on some¬ 
thing that rested against the side of the old 
house, and, on a nearer view, it proved to be an 
221 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

iron shovel, bearing a singular resemblance to 
that which they had seen in their dreams. He 
used it with better success than the old woman, 
the soil giving way so freely to his efforts that 
he had soon scooped a hole as large as the basin 
of the spring. Suddenly, he poked his head 
down to the very bottom of this cavity. ‘‘ Oho ! 
— what have we here ?cried David. 


222 


ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 


O N a pleasant afternoon of June, it was 
my good fortune to be the companion 
of two young ladies in a walk. The di¬ 
rection of our course being left to me, I led them 
neither to Legge's Hill, nor to the Cold Spring, 
nor to the rude shores and old batteries of the 
Neck, nor yet to Paradise ; though if the latter 
place were rightly named, my fair friends would 
have been at home there. We reached the out¬ 
skirts of the town, and, turning aside from a 
street of tanners and curriers, began to ascend a 
hill, which at a distance, by its dark slope and 
the even line of its summit, resembled a green 
rampart along the road. It was less steep than 
its aspect threatened. The eminence formed 
part of an extensive tract of pasture land, and 
was traversed by cowpaths in various directions; 
but, strange to tell, though the whole slope and 
summit were of a peculiarly deep green, scarce a 
blade of grass was visible from the base upward. 
This deceitful verdure was occasioned by a plen¬ 
tiful crop of wood-wax,” which wears the same 
dark and glossy green throughout the summer, 
except at one short period, when it puts forth a 
profusion of yellow blossoms. At that season, 
223 


TALES AND SKETCHES 

to a distant spectator, the hill appears absolutely 
overlaid with gold, or covered with a glory of 
sunshine, even beneath a clouded sky. But the 
curious wanderer on the hill will perceive that 
all the grass, and everything that should nour¬ 
ish man or beast, has been destroyed by this vile 
and ineradicable weed : its tufted roots make 
the soil their own, and permit nothing else to 
vegetate among them; so that a physical curse 
may be said to have blasted the spot, where guilt 
and frenzy consummated the most execrable 
scene that our history blushes to record. For 
this was the field where Superstition won her 
darkest triumph; the high place where our fa¬ 
thers set up their shame, to the mournful gaze 
of generations far remote. The dust of martyrs 
was beneath our feet. We stood on Gallows 
Hill. 

For my own part, I have often courted the his¬ 
toric influence of the spot. But it is singular 
how few come on pilgrimage to this famous hill; 
how many spend their lives almost at its base, 
and never once obey the summons of the shad¬ 
owy past, as it beckons them to the summit. 
Till a year or two since, this portion of our his¬ 
tory had been very imperfectly written, and, as 
we are not a people of legend or tradition, it 
was not every citizen of our ancient town that 
could tell, within half a century, so much as the 
date of the witchcraft delusion. Recently, in- 
224 


ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 


deed, an historian has treated the subject in a 
manner that will keep his name alive, in the only 
desirable connection with the errors of our an¬ 
cestry, by converting the hill of their disgrace 
into an honorable monument of his own anti¬ 
quarian lore, and of that better wisdom, which 
draws the moral while it tells the tale. But we 
are a people of the present, and have no heart¬ 
felt interest in the olden time. Every fifth of 
November, in commemoration of they know not 
what, or rather without an idea beyond the mo¬ 
mentary blaze, the young men scare the town 
with bonfires on this haunted height, but never 
dream of paying funeral honors to those who 
died so wrongfully, and, without a coffin or a 
prayer, were buried here. 

Though, with feminine susceptibility, my 
companions caught all the melancholy associa¬ 
tions of the scene, yet these could but imper¬ 
fectly overcome the gayety of girlish spirits. 
Their emotions came and went with quick vi¬ 
cissitude, and sometimes combined to form a 
peculiar and delicious excitement, the mirth 
brightening the gloom into a sunny shower of 
feeling, and a rainbow in the mind. My own 
more sombre mood was tinged by theirs. With 
now a merry word and next a sad one, we trod 
among the tangled weeds, and almost hoped 
that our feet would sink into the hollow of a 
witch’s grave. Such vestiges were to be found 
225 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


within the memory of man, but have vanished 
now, and with them, I believe, all traces of the 
precise spot of the executions. On the long 
and broad ridge of the eminence, there is no 
very decided elevation of any one point, nor 
other prominent marks, except the decayed 
stumps of two trees, standing near each other, 
and here and there the rocky substance of the 
hill, peeping just above the wood-wax. 

There are few such prospects of town and 
village, woodland and cultivated field, steeples 
and country seats, as we beheld from this un¬ 
happy spot. No blight had fallen on old Es¬ 
sex ; all was prosperity and riches, healthfully 
distributed. Before us lay our native town, ex¬ 
tending from the foot of the hill to the harbor, 
level as a chessboard, embraced by two arms 
of the sea, and filling the whole peninsula with 
a close assemblage of wooden roofs, overtopped 
by many a spire, and intermixed with frequent 
heaps of verdure, where trees threw up their 
shade from unseen trunks. Beyond was the 
bay and its islands, almost the only objects, in 
a country unmarked by strong natural features, 
on which time and human toil had produced no 
change. Retaining these portions of the scene, 
and also the peaceful glory and tender gloom 
of the declining sun, we threw, in imagination, 
a veil of deep forest over the land, and pictured 
a few scattered villages, and this old town itself 
226 


ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 


a village, as when the prince of hell bore sway 
there. The idea thus gained of its former as¬ 
pect, its quaint edifices standing far apart, with 
peaked roofs and projecting stories, and its sin¬ 
gle meeting-house pointing up a tall spire in 
the midst; the vision, in short, of the town in 
1692, served to introduce a wondrous tale of 
those old times. 

I had brought the manuscript in my pocket. 
It was one of a series written years ago, when 
my pen, now sluggish and perhaps feeble, be¬ 
cause I have not much to hope or fear, was 
driven by stronger external motives, and a more 
passionate impulse within, than I am fated to 
feel again. Three or four of these tales had ap¬ 
peared in the Token, after a long time and va¬ 
rious adventures, but had encumbered me with 
no troublesome notoriety, even in my birth¬ 
place. One great heap had met a brighter de¬ 
stiny: they had fed the flames; thoughts meant 
to delight the world and endure for ages had 
perished in a moment, and stirred not a single 
heart but mine. The story now to be intro¬ 
duced, and another, chanced to be in kinder 
custody at the time, and thus, by no conspicu¬ 
ous merits of their own, escaped destruction. 

The ladies, in consideration that I had never 
before intruded my performances on them, by 
any but the legitimate medium, through the 
press, consented to hear me read. I made them 
227 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


sit down on a moss-grown rock, close by the 
spot where we chose to believe that the death 
tree had stood. After a little hesitation on my 
part, caused by a dread of renew^ing my acquaint¬ 
ance with fantasies that had lost their charm in 
the ceaseless flux of mind, I began the tale, 
which opened darkly with the discovery of a 
murder. 


A hundred years, and nearly half that time, 
have elapsed since the body of a murdered man 
was found, at about the distance of three miles, 
on the old road to Boston. He lay in a soli¬ 
tary spot, on the bank of a small lake, which 
the severe frost of December had covered with 
a sheet of ice. Beneath this, it seemed to have 
been the intention of the murderer to conceal 
his victim in a chill and watery grave, the ice 
being deeply hacked, perhaps with the weapon 
that had slain him, though its solidity was too 
stubborn for the patience of a man with blood 
upon his hand. The corpse therefore reclined 
on the earth, but was separated from the road 
by a thick growth of dwarf pines. There had 
been a slight fall of snow during the night, and 
as if Nature were shocked at the deed, and strove 
to hide it with her frozen tears, a little drifted 
heap had partly buried the body, and lay deep¬ 
est over the pale dead face. An early traveller, 
228 



ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 


whose dog had led him to the spot, ventured to 
uncover the features, but was affrighted by their 
expression. A look of evil and scornful tri¬ 
umph had hardened on them, and made death 
so lifelike and so terrible, that the beholder at 
once took flight, as swiftly as if the stiffened 
corpse would rise up and follow. 

I read on, and identified the body as that of 
a young man, a stranger in the country, but re¬ 
sident during several preceding months in the 
town which lay at our feet. The story described, 
at some length, the excitement caused by the 
murder, the unavailing quest after the perpetra¬ 
tor, the funeral ceremonies, and other common¬ 
place matters, in the course of which I brought 
forward the personages who were to move among 
the succeeding events. They were but three. 
A young man and his sister : the former char¬ 
acterized by a diseased imagination and morbid 
feelings ; the latter, beautiful and virtuous, and 
instilling something of her own excellence into 
the wild heart of her brother, but not enough 
to cure the deep taint of his nature. The third 
person was a wizard, — a small, gray, withered 
man, with fiendish ingenuity in devising evil, and 
superhuman power to execute it, but senseless 
as an idiot and feebler than a child to all better 
purposes. The central scene of the story was 
an interview between this wretch and Leonard 
Doane, in the wizard’s hut, situated beneath a 
229 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


range of rocks at some distance from the town. 
They sat beside a smouldering fire, while a tem¬ 
pest of wintry rain was beating on the roof. The 
young man spoke of the closeness of the tie 
which united him and Alice, the consecrated 
fervor of their affection from childhood upwards, 
their sense of lonely sufficiency to each other, 
because they only of their race had escaped death, 
in a night attack by the Indians. He related 
his discovery or suspicion of a secret sympathy 
between his sister and Walter Brome, and told 
how a distempered jealousy had maddened him. 
In the following passage, I threw a glimmering 
light on the mystery of the tale. 

Searching,'' continued Leonard, into the 
breast of Walter Brome, I at length found a 
cause why Alice must inevitably love him. For 
he was my very counterpart! I compared his 
mind by each individual portion, and as a whole, 
with^mine. There was a resemblance from which 
I shrunk with sickness, and loathing, and hor¬ 
ror, as if my own features had come and stared 
upon me in a solitary place, or had met me in 
struggling through a crowd. Nay ! the very 
same thoughts would often express themselves 
in the same words from our lips, proving a hate¬ 
ful sympathy in our secret souls. His educa¬ 
tion, indeed, in the cities of the old world, and 
mine in this rude wilderness, had wrought a 
superficial difference. The evil of his character, 
230 


ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 

also, had been strengthened and rendered pro¬ 
minent by a reckless and ungoverned life, while 
mine had been softened and purified by the gen¬ 
tle and holy nature of Alice. But my soul had 
been conscious of the germ of all the fierce and 
deep passions, and of all the many varieties of 
wickedness, which accident had brought to their 
full maturity in him. Nor will I deny that, in 
the accursed one, I could see the withered blos¬ 
som of every virtue which, by a happier culture, 
had been made to bring forth fruit in me. Now, 
here was a man whom Alice might love with all 
the strength of sisterly affection, added to that 
impure passion which alone engrosses all the 
heart. The stranger would have more than the 
love which had been gathered to me from the 
many graves of our household — and I be deso¬ 
late ! ” 


Leonard Doane went on to describe the in¬ 
sane hatred that had kindled his heart into a 
volume of hellish flame. It appeared, indeed, 
that his jealousy had grounds, so far as that 
Walter Brome had actually sought the love of 
Alice, who also had betrayed an undefinable 
but powerful interest in the unknown youth. 
The latter, in spite of his passion for Alice, 
seemed to return the loathful antipathy of her 
brother ; the similarity of their dispositions made 
them like joint possessors of an individual na- 
231 



TALES AND SKETCHES 


ture, which could not become wholly the pro¬ 
perty of one, unless by the extinction of the 
other. At last, with the same devil in each 
bosom, they chanced to meet, they two, on a 
lonely road. While Leonard spoke, the wizard 
had sat listening to what he already knew, yet 
with tokens of pleasurable interest, manifested 
by flashes of expression across his vacant fea¬ 
tures, by grisly smiles, and by a word here and 
there, mysteriously filling up some void in the 
narrative. But when the young man told how 
Walter Brome had taunted him with indubitable 
proofs of the shame of Alice, and, before the 
triumphant sneer could vanish from his face, had 
died by her brother’s hand, the wizard laughed 
aloud. Leonard started, but just then a gust of 
wind came down the chimney, forming itself into 
a close resemblance of the slow, unvaried laugh¬ 
ter, by which he had been interrupted. I was 
deceived,” thought he; and thus pursued his 
fearful story. 


“ I trod out his accursed soul, and knew that 
he was dead ; for my spirit bounded as if a chain 
had fallen from it and left me free. But the 
burst of exulting certainty soon fled, and was 
succeeded by a torpor over my brain and a dim¬ 
ness before my eyes, with the sensation of one 
who struggles through a dream. So I bent down 
over the body of Walter Brome, gazing into his 
232 



ALICE DOANFS APPEAL 


face, and striving to make my soul glad with the 
thought that he, in very truth, lay dead before 
me. I know not what space of time I had thus 
stood, nor how the vision came. But it seemed 
to me that the irrevocable years since childhood 
had rolled back, and a scene, that had long been 
confused and broken in my memory, arrayed 
itself with all its first distinctness. Methought 
I stood a weeping infant by my father’s hearth, 
— by the cold and blood-stained hearth where 
he lay dead. I heard the childish wail of Alice, 
and my own cry arose with hers, as we beheld 
the features of our parent, fierce with the strife 
and distorted with the pain in which his spirit 
had passed away. As I gazed, a cold wind 
whistled by, and waved my father’s hair. Im¬ 
mediately I stood again in the lonesome road, 
no more a sinless child, but a man of blood, 
whose tears were falling fast over the face of 
his dead enemy. But the delusion was not 
wholly gone ; that face still wore a likeness of 
my father ; and because my soul shrank from 
the fixed glare of the eyes, I bore the body to 
the lake, and would have buried it there. But 
before his icy sepulchre was hewn I heard the 
voices of two travellers, and fled.” 


Such was the dreadful confession of Leonard 
Doane. And now tortured by the idea of his 

233 



TALES AND SKETCHES 


sister’s guilt, yet sometimes yielding to a con¬ 
viction of her purity; stung with remorse for 
the death of Walter Brome, and shuddering 
with a deeper sense of some unutterable crime, 
perpetrated, as he imagined, in madness or a 
dream; moved also by dark impulses, as if a 
fiend were whispering him to meditate violence 
against the life of Alice, — he had sought this 
interview with the wizard, who, on certain con¬ 
ditions, had no power to withhold his aid in 
unravelling the mystery. The tale drew near 
its close. 


The moon was bright on high ; the blue fir¬ 
mament appeared to glow with an inherent 
brightness ; the greater stars were burning in 
their spheres; the northern lights threw their 
mysterious glare far over the horizon ; the few 
small clouds aloft were burdened with radiance; 
but the sky, with all its variety of light, was 
scarcely so brilliant as the earth. The rain of 
the preceding night had frozen as it fell, and, by 
that simple magic, had wrought wonders. The 
trees were hung with diamonds and many-col¬ 
ored gems; the houses were overlaid with sil¬ 
ver, and the streets paved with slippery bright¬ 
ness ; a frigid glory was flung over all familiar 
things, from the cottage chimney to the steeple 
of the meeting-house, that gleamed upward to 
the sky. This living world, where we sit by our 

234 



ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 


firesides, or go forth to meet beings like our¬ 
selves, seemed rather the creation of wizard 
power, with so much of resemblance to known 
objects that a man might shudder at the ghostly 
shape of his old beloved dwelling, and the 
shadow of a ghostly tree before his door. One 
looked to behold inhabitants suited to such a 
town, glittering in icy garments, with motionless 
features, cold, sparkling eyes, and just sensation 
enough in their frozen hearts to shiver at each 
other’s presence. 


By this fantastic piece of description, and more 
in the same style, I intended to throw a ghostly 
glimmer round the reader, so that his imagi¬ 
nation might view the town through a medium 
that should take off its every-day aspect, and 
make it a proper theatre for so wild a scene as 
the final one. Amid this unearthly show, the 
wretched brother and sister were represented as 
setting forth, at midnight, through the gleam¬ 
ing streets, and directing their steps to a grave¬ 
yard, where all the dead had been laid, from the 
first corpse in that ancient town to the mur¬ 
dered man who was buried three days before. 
As they went, they seemed to see the wizard 
gliding by their sides, or walking dimly on the 
path before them. But here I paused, and gazed 
into the faces of my two fair auditors, to judge 

235 



TALES AND SKETCHES 


whether, even on the hill where so many had 
been brought to death by wilder tales than this, 
I might venture to proceed. Their bright eyes 
were fixed on me ; their lips apart. I took 
courage, and led the fated pair to a new-made 
grave, where for a few moments, in the bright 
and silent midnight, they stood alone. But sud¬ 
denly there was a multitude of people among 
the graves. 

Each family tomb had given up its inhabit¬ 
ants, who, one by one, through distant years, 
had been borne to its dark chamber, but now 
came forth and stood in a pale group together. 
There was the gray ancestor, the aged mother, 
and all their descendants, some withered and 
full of years, like themselves, and others in their 
prime ; there, too, were the children who went 
prattling to the tomb, and there the maiden who 
yielded her early beauty to death's embrace, 
before passion had polluted it. Husbands and 
wives arose, who had lain many years side by 
side, and young mothers who had forgotten to 
kiss their first babes, though pillowed so long 
on their bosoms. Many had been buried in the 
habiliments of life, and still wore their ancient 
garb ; some were old defenders of the infant col¬ 
ony, and gleamed forth in their steel caps and 
bright breastplates, as if starting up at an Indian 
war cry ; other venerable shapes had been pas- 
236 



ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 

tors of the church, famous among the New Eng¬ 
land clergy, and now leaned with hands clasped 
over their gravestones, ready to call the congre¬ 
gation to prayer. There stood the early settlers, 
those old illustrious ones, the heroes of tradition 
and fireside legends, the men of history whose 
features had been so long beneath the sod that 
few alive could have remembered them. There, 
too, were faces of former townspeople, dimly 
recollected from childhood, and others, whom 
Leonard and Alice had wept in later years, but 
who now were most terrible of all, by their 
ghastly smile of recognition. All, in short, were 
there; the dead of other generations, whose 
moss-grown names could scarce be read upon 
their tombstones, and their successors, whose 
graves were not yet green; all whom black fu¬ 
nerals had followed slowly thither now reap¬ 
peared where the mourners left them. Yet 
none but souls accursed were there, and fiends 
counterfeiting the likeness of departed saints. 

The countenances of those venerable men, 
whose very features had been hallowed by lives 
of piety, were contorted now by intolerable pain 
or hellish passion, and now by an unearthly and 
derisive merriment. Had the pastors prayed, 
all saintlike as they seemed, it had been blas¬ 
phemy. The chaste matrons, too, and the maid¬ 
ens with untasted lips, who had slept in their 
virgin graves apart from all other dust, now wore 

237 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


a look from which the two trembling mortals 
shrank, as if the unimaginable sin of twenty 
worlds were collected there. The faces of fond 
lovers, even of such as had pined into the tomb, 
because there their treasure was, were bent on 
one another with glances of hatred and smiles 
of bitter scorn, passions that are to devils what 
love is to the blest. At times, the features of 
those who had passed from a holy life to heaven 
would vary to and fro, between their assumed 
aspect and the fiendish lineaments whence they 
had been transformed. The whole miserable 
multitude, both sinful souls and false spectres 
of good men, groaned horribly and gnashed 
their teeth, as they looked upward to the calm 
loveliness of the midnight sky, and beheld those 
homes of bliss where they must never dwell. 
Such was the apparition, though too shadowy 
for language to portray; for here would be the 
moonbeams on the ice, glittering through a war¬ 
rior’s breastplate, and there the letters of a tomb¬ 
stone, on the form that stood before it; and 
whenever a breeze went by, it swept the old 
men’s hoary heads, the women’s fearful beauty, 
and all the unreal throng, into one indistinguish¬ 
able cloud together. 


I dare not give the remainder of the scene, 
except in a very brief epitome. This company 
238 



ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL 


of devils and condemned souls had come on a 
holiday, to revel in the discovery of a compli¬ 
cated crime ; as foul a one as ever was imagined 
in their dreadful abode. In the course of the 
tale, the reader had been permitted to discover 
that all the incidents were results of the machi¬ 
nations of the wizard, who had cunningly devised 
that Walter Brome should tempt his unknown 
sister to guilt and shame, and himself perish by 
the hand of his twin brother. I described the 
glee of the fiends at this hideous conception, and 
their eagerness to know if it were consummated. 
The story concluded with the Appeal of Alice 
to the spectre of Walter Brome; his reply, ab¬ 
solving her from every stain ; and the trembling 
awe with which ghost and devil fled, as from the 
sinless presence of an angel. 

The sun had gone down. While I held my 
page of wonders in the fading light, and read 
how Alice and her brother were left alone among 
the graves, my voice mingled with the sigh of 
a summer wind, which passed over the hilltop, 
with the broad and hollow sound as of the flight 
of unseen spirits. Not a word was spoken till 
I added that the wizard’s grave was close beside 
us, and that the wood-wax had sprouted origi¬ 
nally from his unhallowed bones. The ladies 
started ; perhaps their cheeks might have grown 
pale had not the crimson west been blushing on 
them ; but after a moment they began to laugh, 

239 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


while the breeze took a livelier motion, as if 
responsive to their mirth. I kept an awful so¬ 
lemnity of visage, being, indeed, a little piqued 
that a narrative which had good authority in our 
ancient superstitions, and would have brought 
even a church deacon to Gallows Hill, in old 
witch times, should now be considered too gro¬ 
tesque and extravagant for timid maids to tremble 
at. Though it was past supper time, I detained 
them a while longer on the hill, and made a trial 
whether truth were more powerful than fiction. 

We looked again towards the town, no longer 
arrayed in that icy splendor of earth, tree, and 
edifice, beneath the glow of a wintry midnight, 
which shining afar through the gloom of a cen¬ 
tury had made it appear the very home of vi¬ 
sions in visionary streets. An indistinctness had 
begun to creep over the mass of buildings and 
blend them with the intermingled treetops, ex¬ 
cept where the roof of a statelier mansion, and 
the steeples and brick towers of churches, caught 
the brightness of some cloud that yet floated in 
the sunshine. Twilight over the landscape was 
congenial to the obscurity of time. With such 
eloquence as my share of feeling and fancy could 
supply, I called back hoar antiquity, and bade 
my companions imagine an ancient multitude 
of people, congregated on the hillside, spread¬ 
ing far below, clustering on the steep old roofs, 
and climbing the adjacent heights, wherever a 
240 


The spectre of Walter Brome 





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TtrIC 




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• v^ \..t 


.^•io C.*« 


Mjr 






as-CHAPfiAn^ 


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ALICE DOANFS APPEAL 


glimpse of this spot might be obtained. I strove 
to realize and faintly communicate the deep, un¬ 
utterable loathing and horror, the indignation, 
the affrighted wonder, that wrinkled on every 
brow, and filled the universal heart. See ! the 
whole crowd turns pale and shrinks within it¬ 
self, as the virtuous emerge from yonder street. 
Keeping pace with that devoted company, I de¬ 
scribed them one by one ; here tottered a woman 
in her dotage, knowing neither the crime im¬ 
puted her, nor its punishment; there another, 
distracted by the universal madness, till fever¬ 
ish dreams were remembered as realities, and 
she almost believed her guilt. One, a proud 
man once, was so broken down by the intoler¬ 
able hatred heaped upon him, that he seemed 
to hasten his steps, eager to hide himself in the 
grave hastily dug at the foot of the gallows. As 
they went slowly on, a mother looked behind, 
and beheld her peaceful dwelling; she cast her 
eyes elsewhere, and groaned inwardly yet with 
bitterest anguish, for there was her little son 
among the accusers. I watched the face of an 
ordained pastor, who walked onward to the same 
death; his lips moved in prayer; no narrow 
petition for himself alone, but embracing all his 
fellow sufferers and the frenzied multitude; he 
looked to Heaven and trod lightly up the hill. 

Behind their victims came the afflicted, a guilty 
and miserable band; villains who had thus 
241 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


avenged themselves on their enemies, and viler 
wretches, whose cowardice had destroyed their 
friends; lunatics, whose ravings had chimed in 
with the madness of the land ; and children, who 
had played a game that the imps of darkness 
might have envied them, since it disgraced an 
age, and dipped a people’s hands in blood. In 
the rear of the procession rode a figure on horse¬ 
back, so darkly conspicuous, so sternly trium¬ 
phant, that my hearers mistook him for the visi¬ 
ble presence of the fiend himself; but it was only 
his good friend. Cotton Mather, proud of his 
well-won dignity, as the representative of all the 
hateful features of his time; the one blood¬ 
thirsty man, in whom were concentrated those 
vices of spirit and errors of opinion that sufficed 
to madden the whole surrounding multitude. 
And thus I marshalled them onward, the inno¬ 
cent who were to die, and the guilty who were 
to grow old in long remorse — tracing their 
every step, by rock, and shrub, and broken track, 
till their shadowy visages had circled round the 
hill-top, where we stood. I plunged into my 
imagination for a blacker horror, and a deeper 
woe, and pictured the scaffold — 

But here my companions seized an arm on each 
side ; their nerves were trembling; and, sweeter 
victory still, I had reached the seldom-trodden 
places of their hearts, and found the well-spring 
of their tears. And now the past had done all 
242 


ALICE DOANFS APPEAL 

it could. We slowly descended, watching the 
lights as they twinkled gradually through the 
town, and listening to the distant mirth of boys 
at play, and to the voice of a young girl war¬ 
bling somewhere in the dusk, a pleasant sound 
to wanderers from old witch-times. Yet, ere 
we left the hill, we could not but regret that 
there is nothing on its barren summit, no relic 
of old, nor lettered stone of later days, to assist 
the imagination in appealing to the heart. We 
build the memorial column on the height which 
our fathers made sacred with their blood, poured 
out in a holy cause. And here, in dark, fu¬ 
nereal stone, should rise another monument, 
sadly commemorative of the errors of an earlier 
race, and not to be cast down, while the human 
heart has one infirmity that may result in crime. 

243 


THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS 


I AM afraid this ghost story will bear a very 
faded aspect when transferred to paper. 
Whatever effect it had on you, or whatever 
charm it retains in your memory, is perhaps to 
be attributed to the favorable circumstances 
under which it was originally told. 

We were sitting, I remember, late in the even¬ 
ing, in your drawing-room, where the lights of 
the chandelier were so muffled as to produce a 
delicious obscurity through which the fire dif¬ 
fused a dim red glow. In this rich twilight the 
feelings of the party had been properly attuned 
by some tales of English superstition, and the 
lady of Smithills Hall had just been describing 
that Bloody Footstep which marks the thresh¬ 
old of her old mansion, when your Yankee 
guest (zealous for the honor of his country, 
and desirous of proving that his dead compat¬ 
riots have the same ghostly privileges as other 
dead people, if they think it worth while to 
use them) began a story of something wonderful 
that long ago happened to himself. Possibly 
in the verbal narrative he may have assumed a 
little more license than would be allowable in 
a written record. For the sake of the artistic 
244 


THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS 

effect, he may then have thrown in, here and 
there, a few slight circumstances which he will 
not think it proper to retain in what he now 
puts forth as the sober statement of a veritable 
fact. 

A good many years ago (it must be as many 
as fifteen, perhaps more, and while I was still a 
bachelor) I resided at Boston, in the United 
States. In that city there is a large and long- 
established library, styled the Athenaeum, con¬ 
nected with which is a reading-room, well sup¬ 
plied with foreign and American periodicals and 
newspapers. A splendid edifice has since been 
erected by the proprietors of the institution; 
but, at the period I speak of, it was contained 
within a large, old mansion, formerly the town 
residence of an eminent citizen of Boston. The 
reading-room (a spacious hall, with the group 
of the Laocoon at one end, and the Belvidere 
Apollo at the other) was frequented by not a 
few elderly merchants, retired from business, by 
clergymen and lawyers, and by such literary 
men as we had amongst us. These good people 
were mostly old, leisurely, and somnolent, and 
used to nod and doze for hours together, with 
the newspapers before them — ever and anon 
recovering themselves so far as to read a word 
or two of the politics of the day— sitting, as it 
were, on the boundary of the Land of Dreams, 
and having little to do with this world, except 

245 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


through the newspapers which they so tena¬ 
ciously grasped. 

One of these worthies, whom I occasionally 
saw there, was the Reverend Doctor Harris, a 
Unitarian clergyman of considerable repute and 
eminence. He was very far advanced in life, not 
less than eighty years old, and probably more; 
and he resided, I think, at Dorchester, a sub¬ 
urban village in the immediate vicinity of Bos¬ 
ton. I had never been personally acquainted 
with this good old clergyman, but had heard 
of him all my life as a noteworthy man ; so that 
when he was first pointed out to me I looked 
at him with a certain specialty of attention, and 
always subsequently eyed him with a degree of 
interest whenever I happened to see him at the 
Athenaeum or elsewhere. He was a small, with¬ 
ered, infirm, but brisk old gentleman, with snow- 
white hair, a somewhat stooping figure, but yet 
a remarkable alacrity of movement. I remem¬ 
ber it was in the street that I first noticed him. 
The Doctor was plodding along with a staff, but 
turned smartly about on being addressed by the 
gentleman who was with me, and responded 
with a good deal of vivacity. 

‘‘ Who is he ? I inquired, as soon as he had 
passed. “ The Reverend Doctor Harris, of 
Dorchester,” replied my companion ; and from 
that time I often saw him, and never forgot his 
aspect. His especial haunt was the Athenaeum. 

246 


THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS 


There I used to see him daily, and almost always 
with a newspaper — the Boston Post, which was 
the leading journal of the Democratic party in 
the Northern States. As old Doctor Harris 
had been a noted Democrat during his more 
active life, it was a very natural thing that he 
should still like to read the Boston Post. There 
his reverend figure was accustomed to sit day 
after day, in the self-same chair by the fireside; 
and, by degrees, seeing him there so constantly, 
I began to look towards him as I entered the 
reading-room, and felt that a kind of acquaint¬ 
ance, at least on my part, was established. Not 
that I had any reason (as long as this venerable 
person remained in the body) to suppose that 
he ever noticed me; but by some subtle con¬ 
nection, this small, white-haired, infirm, yet 
vivacious figure of an old clergyman became 
associated with my idea and recollection of the 
place. One day especially (about noon, as was 
generally his hour) I am perfectly certain that 
I had seen this figure of old Doctor Harris, 
and taken my customary note of him, although 
I remember nothing in his appearance at all 
different from what I had seen on many previ¬ 
ous occasions. 

But, that very evening, a friend said to me. 

Did you hear that old Doctor Harris is dead ?'' 

No,” said I very quietly, and it cannot be 
true ; for I saw him at the Athenaeum to-day.” 

247 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


You must be mistaken/' rejoined my friend. 

He is certainly dead ! ” and confirmed the fact 
with such special circumstances that I could no 
longer doubt it. My friend has often since 
assured me that I seemed much startled at the 
intelligence ; but, as well as I can recollect, I 
believe that I was very little disturbed, if at all, 
but set down the apparition as a mistake of my 
own, or, perhaps, the interposition of a familiar 
idea into the place and amid the circumstances 
with which I had been accustomed to associate it. 

The next day, as I ascended the steps of the 
Athenaeum, I remember thinking within myself, 
‘‘Well, I never shall see old Doctor Harris 
again !" With this thought in my mind, as I 
opened the door of the reading-room, I glanced 
towards the spot and chair where Doctor Harris 
usually sat, and there, to my astonishment, sat 
the gray, infirm figure of the deceased Doctor, 
reading the newspaper as was his wont! His 
own death must have been recorded, that very 
morning, in that very newspaper! I have no re¬ 
collection of being greatly discomposed at the 
moment, nor indeed that I felt any extraordinary 
emotion whatever. Probably, if ghosts were in 
the habit of coming among us, they would coin¬ 
cide with the ordinary train of affairs, and melt 
into them so familiarly that we should not be 
shocked at their presence. At all events, so it 
was in this instance. I looked through the 
248 


THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS 


newspapers as usual, and turned over the peri¬ 
odicals, taking about as much interest in their 
contents as at other times. Once or twice, no 
doubt, 1 may have lifted my eyes from the page 
to look again at the venerable Doctor, who 
ought then to have been lying in his coffin 
dressed out for the grave, but who felt such in¬ 
terest in the Boston Post as to come back from 
the other world to read it the morning after his 
death. One might have supposed that he would 
have cared more about the novelties of the 
sphere to which he had just been introduced 
than about the politics he had left behind him! 

The apparition took no notice of me, nor be¬ 
haved otherwise in any respect than on any pre¬ 
vious day. Nobody but myself seemed to no¬ 
tice him ; and yet the old gentlemen round about 
the fire, beside his chair, were his lifelong ac¬ 
quaintances, who were perhaps thinking of his 
death, and who in a day or two would deem it 
a proper courtesy to attend his funeral. 

I have forgotten how the ghost of Doctor 
Harris took its departure from the Athenaeum 
on this occasion, or, in fact, whether the ghost 
or I went first. This equanimity, and almost 
indifference, on my part—the careless way in 
which I glanced at so singular a mystery and 
left it aside — is what now surprises me as much 
as anything else in the affair. 

From that time, for a long while thereafter 
249 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


— for weeks at least, and I know not but for 
months — I used to see the figure of Doctor 
Harris quite as frequently as before his death. 
It grew to be so common that at length I re¬ 
garded the venerable defunct no more than any 
other of the old fogies who basked before the 
fire and dozed over the newspapers. 

It was but a ghost— nothing but thin air— 
not tangible nor appreciable, nor demanding any 
attention from a man of flesh and blood ! I 
cannot recollect any cold shudderings, any awe, 
any repugnance, any emotion whatever, such as 
would be suitable and decorous on beholding a 
visitant from the spiritual world. It is very 
strange, but such is the truth. It appears ex¬ 
cessively odd to me now that I did not adopt 
such means as I readily might to ascertain 
whether the appearance had solid substance, or 
was merely gaseous and vapory. I might have 
brushed against him, have jostled his chair, or 
have trodden accidentally on his poor old toes. 
I might have snatched the Boston Post — un¬ 
less that were an apparition too — out of his 
shadowy hands. I might have tested him in a 
hundred ways; but I did nothing of the kind. 

Perhaps I was loath to destroy the illusion, 
and to rob myself of so good a ghost story, 
which might probably have been explained in 
some very commonplace way. Perhaps, after 
all, I had a secret dread of the old phenomenon, 
250 


THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS 

and therefore kept within my limits, with an in¬ 
stinctive caution which I mistook for indiffer¬ 
ence. Be this as it may, here is the fact. I saw 
the figure, day after day, for a considerable space 
of time, and took no pains to ascertain whether 
it was a ghost or no. I never, to my know¬ 
ledge, saw him come into the reading-room or 
depart from it. There sat Doctor Harris in his 
customary chair, and I can say little else about 
him. 

After a certain period — I really know not 
how long — I began to notice, or to fancy, a 
peculiar regard in the old gentleman's aspect 
towards myself. I sometimes found him gazing 
at me, and, unless I deceived myself, there was 
a sort of expectancy in his face. His spectacles, 
I think, were shoved up, so that his bleared eyes 
might meet my own. Had he been a living 
man I should have flattered myself that good 
Doctor Harris was, for some reason or other, 
interested in me and desirous of a personal ac¬ 
quaintance. Being a ghost, and amenable to 
ghostly laws, it was natural to conclude that he 
was waiting to be spoken to before delivering 
whatever message he wished to impart. But, if 
so, the ghost had shown the bad judgment com¬ 
mon among the spiritual brotherhood, both as 
regarded the place of interview and the person 
whom he had selected as the recipient of his 
communications. In the reading-room of the 

251 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


Athenaeum conversation is strictly forbidden, 
and I could not have addressed the apparition 
without drawing the instant notice and indig¬ 
nant frowns of the slumbrous old gentlemen 
around me. I myself, too, at that time, was as 
shy as any ghost, and followed the ghosts’ rule 
never to speak first. And what an absurd fig¬ 
ure should I have made, solemnly and awfully 
addressing what must have appeared, in the eyes 
of all the rest of the company, an empty chair ! 
Besides, I had never been introduced to Doctor 
Harris, dead or alive, and I am not aware that 
social regulations are to be abrogated by the 
accidental fact of one of the parties having 
crossed the imperceptible line which separates 
the other party from the spiritual world. If 
ghosts throw off all conventionalism among 
themselves, it does not therefore follow that it 
can safely be dispensed with by those who are 
still hampered with flesh and blood. 

For such reasons as these—and reflecting, 
moreover, that the deceased Doctor might bur¬ 
den me with some disagreeable task, with which 
I had no business nor wish to be concerned — 
I stubbornly resolved to have nothing to say to 
him. To this determination I adhered; and 
not a syllable ever passed between the ghost of 
Doctor Harris and myself. 

To the best of my recollection, I never ob¬ 
served the old gentleman either enter the read- 
252 


THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS 

ing-room or depart from it, or move from his 
chair, or lay down the newspaper, or exchange 
a look with any person in the company, unless 
it were myself. He was not by any means in- 
variably in his place. In the evening, for in¬ 
stance, though often at the reading-room my¬ 
self, I never saw him. It was at the brightest 
noontide that I used to behold him, sitting 
within the most comfortable focus of the glow¬ 
ing fire, as real and lifelike an object (except that 
he was so very old, and of an ashen complex¬ 
ion) as any other in the room. After a long 
while of this strange intercourse, if such it can 
be called, I remember — once, at least, and I 
know not but oftener — a sad, wistful, disap¬ 
pointed gaze, which the ghost fixed upon me 
from beneath his spectacles ; a melancholy look 
of helplessness, which, if my heart had not been 
as hard as a paving-stone, I could hardly have 
withstood. But I did withstand it; and I think 
I saw him no more after this last appealing look, 
which still dwells in my memory as perfectly as 
while my own eyes were encountering the dim 
and bleared eyes of the ghost. And whenever 
I recall this strange passage of my life, I see the 
small, old, withered figure of Doctor Harris, 
sitting in his accustomed chair, the Boston Post 
in his hand, his spectacles shoved upwards — 
and gazing at me as I close the door of the 
reading-room, with that wistful, appealing, hope- 
253 


TALES AND SKETCHES 


less, helpless look. It is too late now ; his 
grave has been grass-grown this many and many 
a year; and I hope he has found rest in it with¬ 
out any aid from me. 

I have only to add that it was not until long 
after I had ceased to encounter the ghost that 
I became aware how very odd and strange the 
whole affair had been ; and even now I am made 
sensible of its strangeness chiefly by the wonder 
and incredulity of those to whom I tell the 
story. 

Liverpool, Auguit 17 , 1856 . 

254 


APPENDIX 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 

“ Now, father, tell us all about the old gun,” were 
the words of one of a number of children, who were 
seated around the hearth of a New England cottage. 
The old man sat in an arm-chair at one side of the 
fireplace, and his wife was installed in one of smaller 
dimensions on the other. The boys, that they might 
not disturb the old man’s meditations, seemed to keep 
as much silence as was possible for individuals of their 
age; the fire burned high, with a sound like that of 
a trumpet, and its blaze occasionally shone on an 
old rifle which was suspended horizontally above the 
mantel. 

“ Willingly, my boys,” said the old man, appar¬ 
ently animated by his returning recollections. “ It 
may help to give you an idea of old times, when 
boys could not stay in their quiet homes like you, but 
were forced, or rather glad, to do what little they 
could for their country. My father lived in Tewks¬ 
bury, a small town in Middlesex county. We were 
not generally much interested in the news of the day, 
but the spirit of resistance had then spread to every 
cottage in the country. The younger men of our vil¬ 
lage, following the example of others, had formed 
themselves into military bands, who were obliged by 

255 


APPENDIX 


the terms of their association to be ready to march at 
a moment’s warning, and were, therefore, called Min¬ 
ute Men. Perhaps if you accent the last syllable of 
that word minute, it would better describe a consid¬ 
erable portion of our number, of whom I was one. I 
armed myself with that rifle which you see over the 
mantel, though it was a weary labor to me to bear it 
on a march, and this, with a leathern bag for bullets, 
and a powder-horn, completed my equipment. We 
relied more upon the justice of our cause, not to men¬ 
tion our skill in sharp-shooting, than upon military 
discipline, and thence derived courage which was not 
a little needed; for the name of Roger was a very 
formidable one to every American ear. 

“ Having completed our preparations, such as they 
were, we waited for an opportunity, which the British 
were expected soon to afford us. It was understood 
that their purpose was to possess themselves of certain 
military stores at Concord, and a secret arrangement 
was made with the friends of liberty in Boston, that 
when they marched out for that purpose, lights should 
be displayed in certain spires, to alarm the country. 
One night in April, after a day of unusually hard 
labor, we were suddenly startled with a heavy sound 
which shook all the windows of the house. Another 
followed it, and we said in deep and half breathless 
tones to each other, ‘ It is the signal gun! ’ I must 
confess that my heart beat hard at the sound, and my 
cheek was cold with dismay; but my father, who was 
lame with a wound received in the old French War, 
encouraged us by his animation. ‘ Now,’ said he, 
‘ the time is come. Go, my boys, and do your 
256 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 


best.’ We had no time for sad reflections, so we ran 
hastily to the meeting-house, where the rest of our 
number were already collected by the light of lanterns. 
With your ideas of military show, you might, in a 
calmer moment, have smiled at our display. The 
younger men were gathered in groups round certain 
veterans who rejoiced in that opportunity of fighting 
their battles over again ; but the arrival of the colonel 
broke up their conference. He came, not in state 
with his staff around him, but with that sign of au¬ 
thority in his hand. He was a man whose equanim¬ 
ity nothing ever disturbed, and I am free to confess 
that I heartily envied him, when I heard his quiet 
tones calling to his men to mind their business; 
and when they had sufficiently arranged .their ranks, 
saying, ‘ Come, we’d as good’s go along.’ Along 
he went, as quietly as he had followed his plough 
that day, but there were hearts among his followers 
that were sorely oppressed by the excitement of the 
scene. 

‘‘We moved in darkness and silence on the road to 
Lexington. As we came near the town, we thought 
we heard the sound of some unusual motion, and, as 
the day began to dawn, were on the watch to discover 
the cause, when suddenly, as we turned the base of a 
hill, the martial music burst upon the ear, and the 
bright colors and the long red files of the British army 
came full in view. As if by one consent we all stood 
still for a time; and I declare to you, that helpless as 
we were in comparison to such a force, and young as 
I was for such encounters, the moment I saw what 
the danger was, I felt at once relieved, and, nothing 
257 


APPENDIX 

doubting that an engagement must take place, I longed 
for it to begin. 

“ In a few moments we heard the sound of irregu¬ 
lar firing, and saw our countrymen dispersing in every 
direction. Then our senior officer gave orders — not 
after a military sort, but still the best that could be 
given on such an occasion — for each man to go into 
the fields and fight ‘ upon his own hook.’ This was 
done at once, and with surprising execution. A close 
fire was poured in on the regulars from all quarters, 
though not an American was to be seen. They fired 
passionately and at random, but every moment they 
saw their best men falling, and found themselves 
obliged to retreat without revenge. Closely did we 
follow them throughout that day. Unused as we were 
to blood, we felt a triumph when each one of our 
enemies fell. I received two balls in my clothes, and 
one passed through my hat, but so engaged was I in 
firing, that I hardly noticed them at the time. 

•‘‘When my powder was gone, I went out on the 
track of the retreating army, with a high heart and 
burning cheek, I assure you. The first of the fallen 
that I saw before me was a young officer, not older 
than myself, who had received a wound in the breast, 
and was lying by the wayside. There was a calm re¬ 
pose in the expression of his features, which I have 
often seen in those who died of gunshot wounds; his 
lips were gently parted, and he seemed like one neither 
dead nor sleeping, but profoundly wrapped in medita¬ 
tions on distant scenes and friends. I went up to him 
with the same proud feeling which I had maintained 
throughout the battle; but when I saw him lying there 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 

in his beauty, and thought of all the hopes that were 
crushed by that blow, of those who were dreaming of 
him as one free from danger, and waiting the happy 
moment that was to restore him to their arms; and, 
more than all, when I thought that I might have been 
the cause of all this destruction, my heart relented 
within me, and I confess to you that I sat down by 
that poor youth and wept like a child. I left the spot 
with the heavy steps of one who feels the weight of 
blood upon his head, and returned to my father’s 
house resolved to expiate my crime. The image of 
that youth, pale and bleeding, was before my eyes by 
day, and at my bedside by night, for weeks after, and 
in every wind I thought I heard the voice of the 
avenger of blood.” 

“ And did you fight no more, father” 

“ O yes, my boy. As soon as Boston was invested, 
we heard that our services were called for, and no¬ 
thing more was wanted to fill the ranks of the army. 
I arrived at the camp the evening before the battle of 
Bunker Hill. Though weary with the march of the 
day, I went to the hill upon which our men were 
throwing up the breastwork in silence, and happened 
to reach the spot just as the morning was breaking in 
the sky. It was clear and calm ; the sky was like 
pearl, the mist rolled lightly from the still water, and 
the large vessels of the enemy lay quiet as the islands. 
Never shall I forget the earthquake-voice with which 
that silence was broken. A smoke like that of a con¬ 
flagration burst from the sides of the ships, and the 
first thunders of the revolutionary storm rolled over 
our heads. The bells of the city spread the alarm. 


APPENDIX 


the lights flashed in a thousand windows, the drums 
and trumpets mustered their several bands, and the 
sounds, in their confusion, seemed like an articulate 
voice foretelling the strife of that day. 

“We took our places mechanically, side by side, be¬ 
hind the breastwork, and waited for the struggle to 
begin. We waited long and in silence. There was 
no noise but of the men at the breastwork strengthen¬ 
ing their rude fortifications. We saw the boats put off 
from the city, and land the forces on the shore be¬ 
neath our station. Still there was silence, except when 
the tall figure of our commander moved along our line, 
directing us not to fire until the word was given. For 
my part, as I saw those gallant forces march up the 
hill in well ordered ranks, with the easy confidence 
of those who had been used to victory, I was motion¬ 
less with astonishment and delight. I thought only on 
their danger, and the steady courage with which they 
advanced to meet it, the older ofiicers moving with 
mechanical indifference, the younger with impatient 
daring. Then a fire blazed along their ranks, but the 
shot struck in the redoubt or passed harmlessly over our 
heads. Not a solitary musket answered, and if you had 
seen the redoubt, you would have said that some mighty 
charm had turned all its inmates to stone. But when 
they stood so near us that every shot would tell, a single 
gun from the right was the signal for us to begin, and 
we poured upon them a fire, under which a single glance, 
before the smoke covered all, showed us their columns 
reeling like some mighty wall which the elements are 
striving to overthrow. As the vapor passed away, 
their line appeared as if a scythe of destruction had cut 
260 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 

it down, for one long line of dead and dying marked 
the spot where their ranks had stood. Again they re¬ 
turned to the charge; again they were cut down; and 
then the heavy masses of smoke from the burning town 
added magnificence to the scene. By this time my 
powder-horn was empty, and most of those around me 
had but a single charge remaining. It was evident that 
our post must be abandoned, but I resolved to resist 
them once again. They came upon us with double 
fury. An officer happened to be near me; raising my 
musket, and putting all my strength into the blow, I 
laid him dead at my feet. But, meantime, the British 
line passed me in pursuit of the flying Americans, and 
thus cut off my retreat; one of their soldiers fired, and 
the ball entered my side. I fell, and was beaten with 
muskets on the head until they left me for dead upon 
the field. When I recovered, the soldiers were employed 
in burying their dead. An officer inquired if I could 
walk ; but finding me unable, he directed his men to 
drag me by the feet to their boats, where I was thrown 
in, fainting with agony, and carried with the rest of 
the prisoners to Boston. One of my comrades, who 
saw me fallen, returned with the news to my parents. 
They heard nothing more concerning me, but had no 
doubt that I was slain. They mourned for me as lost, 
and a rude stone was erected near the graves of my 
family, in the burying-ground, to record the fate of the 
one who was not permitted to sleep with his fathers. 
I doubt not that the mourning was sincere, nor do I 
doubt that there was in all their sorrow a feeling of 
exultation, that one of their number was counted 
worthy to suffer death in the service of his country. 
261 


APPENDIX 


The old schoolmaster, who was a learned man, said 
it was like the monument to the slain at Marathon, 
a great field of ancient times, and often pointed it out 
to his scholars from his school window, to encourage 
that spirit of freedom which was the passion of that 
day. 

“ I was carried to the hospital in Boston, and never 
shall I forget the scene presented in that abode of woe. 
The rooms were small and crowded; the regular and 
provincial were thrown in together, to be visited, that 
is, looked upon, if perchance they could catch his eye, 
once a day, by an indifferent physician, who neither 
understood nor cared for his duty. It was dire and 
dreadful to hear the curses poured out by some dying 
wretch upon the rebels who had given him his death 
wound; but my heart sank still more at hearing the 
last words of some of my countrymen, who entreated 
the surviving to tell their friends that in death they re¬ 
membered them, and gave up their lives calmly and 
religiously, as brave men should. One youth of my 
age do I especially remember; his bed was next to 
mine. One night his gasping informed me that his 
death was drawing nigh. I rose upon my elbow and 
looked upon him, as a pale lamp shone upon his fea¬ 
tures. There was a tear in his eye, and his thoughts 
were far away, evidently returning to that home which 
never was to behold him again. Long time he lay thus, 
and I remained gazing on him, expecting myself soon 
to pass through the same change. At last the expres¬ 
sion of his countenance altered ; he raised his hands 
and clasped them as if in supplication, his eyes were 
turned upwards, and in that prayer, when sleep had 
262 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 

happily sealed the eyes of the blasphemers around him, 
he gave up his soul unto God. 

“ When the British were obliged to retire from Bos¬ 
ton, I was taken to Halifax, with the rest of the pris¬ 
oners, in the fleet. I was first placed in a prison-ship, 
but soon removed to a prison in the town. The 
confinement grew intolerable, as my limbs recovered 
strength, and the prison door was hardly closed before 
I resolved, with my companions, that we would not rest 
till we had made one great endeavor. Every day we 
were insulted by the wretches employed to guard us; 
our food was hardly sufficient to sustain us; we were 
not permitted to know anything of the success of our 
countrymen, and as often as any favor was requested, 
it was denied with bitter scorn. Our apartment, in 
which six were confined, resembled a dungeon; but 
this, while it added to the gloom of our condition, aided 
our attempts at escape. I was fortunate enough to 
find an old bayonet upon the floor, with which I loos¬ 
ened the masonry of the prison wall. Long and wea¬ 
rily did we labor, relieving each other at the task, and 
thus keeping constantly employed day and night, ex¬ 
cept when the grating of rusty hinges informed us that 
the turnkey was coming near our room. We had hung 
up our clothing on the wall where we labored as soon 
as we entered the jail, so that it was not suspected to 
be a screen for our labors. In the course of four long 
weeks we succeeded in penetrating through the wall, 
and never did my heart bound with such delight, as 
when I saw the first gleam of a star through the open¬ 
ing. 

“We waited for a night suitable to our purpose, and 
263 


APPENDIX 


it seemed as if the elements had conspired against us; 
for seven days passed, and each night it was as clear 
and calm as possible. At last the night set in dark and 
stormy. The wind, as it howled from the ocean, and 
sent the rain rattling against our little window, was 
music to our ears. We heard the toll of midnight from 
the bells of the town, and then began our operations. 
We took the stones of the wall and placed them 
within the dungeon, removing them silently and one 
by one. When the passage was opened, we saw that 
it was not very high above the ground. We doubted 
not that the sentry would conceal himself in his box 
from the storm, but lest he should discover us, each 
armed himself with a stone. He was sheltered, as we 
supposed, but hearing the sound we made in letting our¬ 
selves down from the breach, he came toward us. Be¬ 
fore he could give his challenge we threw our stones 
at the unfortunate man, and heard him sink heavily to 
the earth, his musket ringing as he fell. 

“Four of our number were strong, but one, with 
myself, was infirm from the effect of wounds. They, 
therefore, at our request, left us behind, though with 
much apparent reluctance. It was an evil hour for 
them when they did so, for they were afterwards re¬ 
taken, and committed to prison again, where ill treat¬ 
ment and depression put an end to their lives before 
the close of the war. I went with my companion into 
a swamp about a mile from the town, and we had 
hardly secured our retreat, and laid ourselves down to 
rest, when the roar of a gun came floating upon the 
wind, a signal that our retreat was discovered. It was 
followed by the martial shout of the bugle; but, near 
264 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 

as it was, we could go no farther, and could only qui¬ 
etly employ ourselves in gathering boughs of pine to 
form a kind of couch and covering. Thus we lay shel¬ 
tered till the day dawned, listening in no pleasing sus¬ 
pense to the sounds of alarm that reached us from the 
town. In a few hours the sounds grew near us ; we 
could even see our pursuers as they passed by. A 
small party employed a stratagem to draw us from the 
swamp, in which they thought it possible we had taken 
shelter. Suddenly crying out, ‘ Here they are,’ they 
fired into the shrubbery ; but though the balls fell all 
around us, we saw their motions, and were not fright¬ 
ened from our hiding place. We rose at night, and 
went on our way, subsisting upon roots and berries, to¬ 
gether with a little miserable bread, which we had saved 
for this expedition; but we were tortured with hunger, 
and on passing a barn my companion secured a fowl, 
which we ate, raw as it was, with delight. 

“ Thus we travelled for seven days, almost without 
food, and entirely without shelter; but our strength 
began to give way. I deliberated with my companion, 
who was resolute, though still more feeble than I, and 
we determined to throw ourselves on the mercy of some 
passing traveller. We had no other possible chance of 
relief, and though this was hazardous, and almost hope¬ 
less, we resolved if we met but one person, we would 
make ourselves known, and ask his protection. Soon 
after we had decided on this adventure, we heard the 
lingering tramp of a horse, and saw a venerable-looking 
person, who reminded us of one of our New England 
farmers, going to market with well filled saddle-bags, 
from which the claws of poultry made their appearance 
265 


APPENDIX 


in the attitude of supplication. He was to all appear¬ 
ance just the man we wanted to see, and our first im¬ 
pressions were not disappointed. I came out from the 
hedge, and requested him to hear me; but he looked 
at me with his eyes and mouth wide open, and say¬ 
ing, ‘ Can't stop,' endeavored, with much clamor, to 
urge his beast into a quicker step. But the steed was 
my friend on this occasion, and absolutely refused to 
hasten his movements without some better reason than 
he saw at the time. I took advantage of his delay 
to state my condition to the old man, whose counte¬ 
nance changed at once on hearing my story. ‘ Con¬ 
science !' said he, ‘ I thought ye no better than a 
picaroon; but ye look 'most starved.' So saying, he 
got olF his horse, and, opening his saddle-bags, he gave 
me the bread and cheese which he had provided for his 
own journey. This I shared with my companion, who 
came forward and joined me. ‘ I was going to ask 
you to ride double,' said the farmer, ‘ but the crea¬ 
ture can't carry three, though ye are both of ye rather 
meagre. However, wait here till I come back at night, 
then I will lend a hand to help you. I don't know as 
it's quite right, but I took a notion for the Americans 
myself, when I heard you were angry about the price 
of tea. It's dear enough here, that's certain. But 
whether or no, I can't see how I should help King 
George by carrying you back to Halifax, to be hanged, 
maybe, though I would do anything for the old gentle¬ 
man in reason.' With many cautions and encourage¬ 
ments he left us. 

“We concealed ourselves through the day, and 
many suspicions came over us, that our friend might 
266 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 


be induced by the reward to give us up to our pursu¬ 
ers. But we did him injustice. At night he came 
back, and seemed glad to see us when we made our 
appearance. ‘ I might have come back before,’ said 
he, ‘ but I thought we could work better in the dark.’ 
He then dismounted, and without delay directed us to 
mount the horse, while he would walk by its side. 
For a long time we refused to suffer him, aged as he 
was, to encounter such fatigue, but we were really 
worn out, and at last consented. We went on all that 
night, the old man keeping up our spirits by his con¬ 
versation. It was daybreak before he showed any 
intention of making a permanent halt; but as the 
morning grew red in the sky, he urged us forward till 
we stopped under the windows of a solitary farmhouse, 
with its large buildings round it, not neat as they are 
seen in New England, but still indicating thrift and 
industry in its possessor. ‘Thank Heaven, here we 
are,’ said the farmer, ‘ for I do not know how it is, 
I am not the man for a walk I once was ; ’ and truly 
the weight of eighty years might have exempted him 
from such labors. He went to what appeared to be 
a bedroom window, where he knocked with some 
caution. Forthwith a nightcapped head made its 
appearance, and at once declared its native land by the 
exclamation, ‘ Law for me! what brings you home 
at this time o’ night! ’ But the question was only an¬ 
swered by a request that the individual, who was no 
less than the old man’s helpmate, would rise and open 
the door. She rose with cheerful alacrity, and im¬ 
mediately began to make preparations for the morn¬ 
ing’s meal, without troubling herself much about the 


APPENDIX 


character of her husband’s guests; though it should 
not be forgotten, that he condescended to make some 
little explanations. When the breakfast was over, 
which, however, was a work of time, we were invited 
to spend all that day in rest after our long and painful 
labor. 

“ In the evening we met again in the huge kitchen, 
which was the gathering place of the family, who were 
amused with some feigned account of our character, 
and the object of our visit. When the miscellaneous 
collection had retired, leaving us with the old man and 
his wife, we gave him a full account of our adventures, 
finding from his unconcern as to politics that we were 
in a place of security. He told us there was much 
confusion in the town on account of our escape, and 
that a reward was offered for our detection, while at 
the same time detachments of soldiers were sent in 
pursuit. He himself was strictly examined, and he 
said that he did not feel quite easy in his mind, when 
he thought of the lies of all sorts and sizes which he 
had felt obliged to tell. ‘ However,’ said he, ‘ I did 
not do evil that good might come. I did the good first 
and then the evil followed, which was no lookout of 
mine.’ 

“We proposed to leave him that night, but he would 
by no means consent to this, and insisted on our re¬ 
maining with him for some time, as he said, ‘ to pick 
up our crumbs.’ On the third night we took leave of 
our Samaritan with the deepest emotion of gratitude 
for his kindness. I always looked on the bright side 
of human nature; but I never received an impression 
in its favor so decided and reviving as from the con- 
268 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 

duct of this humble man. I never saw nor heard of 
him again. 

“ Our friend had given us directions to a place 
where we could take passage for Falmouth, now Port¬ 
land. We succeeded in reaching it without difficulty, 
and, though we had no money, his recommendation 
gained us a place in the vessel. I felt relieved when 
once more upon the waters, and standing gallantly out 
to sea. With what different feelings had I traversed 
the same ocean-roads before ! Then my heart died 
within me, as I stood on the battlements of the float¬ 
ing castle that bore me through the waves ; every mo¬ 
ment increased the distance that separated me from 
my home and country, which grew dearer to me in the 
hour of its own distress and mine ; now, as our little 
whaleboat bounded over the waves, I felt bold, joyous, 
and triumphant. I thought then that there were 
moments in a life of changes, which atone for the 
heaviness of many of its hours. I have since learned 
that the only real happiness is that which I then un¬ 
consciously felt, arising from the reflection that I had 
done my duty. 

“ From Falmouth we went home on foot. Before 
I reached my native village, my companion left me. 
His society had become endeared to me by our part¬ 
nership in misfortune, and I parted from him with 
sorrow. He has ceased from the number of the liv¬ 
ing long ago, but I hope to meet him again. I entered 
my native place on a clear summer afternoon ; the air 
was calm, the sky was clear, and there was stillness 
like that of the Sabbath through the whole extent of 
the place. I remembered hearing the distant bell, and 
269 


APPENDIX 


knew that they were assembled for the lecture which 
preceded the Communion service, according to the 
custom of our fathers. I went to my father’s door, 
and entered it softly. My mother was sitting in her 
usual place by the fireside, though there were green 
boughs instead of fagots in the chimney before her. 
When she saw me, she gave a wild look, grew deadly 
pale, and making an ineffectual effort to speak to me, 
fainted away. With much difficulty I restored her, 
but it was long before I could make her understand 
that the supposed apparition was in truth her son whom 
she had so long mourned for as dead. My little 
brother had also caught a glimpse of me, and with 
that superstition which was in that day so much more 
common than it is in this, he was sadly alarmed. In 
his fright he ran to the meeting-house to give the alarm ; 
when he reached that place, the service had ended, and 
the congregation were just coming from its doors. 
Breathless with fear, he gave them his tidings, losing 
even his dread, in that moment, for the venerable 
minister and the snowy wigs of the deacons. Having 
told them what he had seen, they turned, with the 
whole assembly after them, towards my father’s house; 
and such was their impatience to arrive at the spot, 
that minister, deacons, old men and matrons, young 
men and maidens, quickened their steps to a run. 

“Never was there such a confusion in our village. 
The young were eloquent in their amazement, and 
the old put on their spectacles to see the strange being 
who had thus returned as from the dead. I told my 
story over and over again. As often as I concluded it, 
new detachments arrived, who insisted on hearing all 
270 


THE YOUNG PROVINCIAL 


the particulars in their turn. The house was crowded 
with visitors till far into the night, when the minister 
dismissed them, by calling on my father and mother 
to join him in an offering of praise, ‘ for this son 
which was dead and is alive again, which was lost and 
is found.’ ” 


271 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 


A TALE OF A CANAL BOAT 

In the summer of i8—, I made an excursion to 
Niagara. At Schenectady, finding the roads nearly 
impassable, I took passage in a canal boat for Utica. 
The weather was dull and lowering. There were 
but few passengers on board; and of those few, none 
were sufficiently inviting in appearance to induce me 
to make any overtures to a travelling acquaintance. 
A stupid answer, or a surly monosyllable, were all that 
I got in return for the few simple questions I hazarded. 
An occasional drizzling rain, and the wet and slip¬ 
pery condition of the tow-path, along which the lazy 
beasts that dragged the vessel travelled, rendered it 
impossible to vary the monotony of the scene by walk¬ 
ing. I had neglected to provide myself with books, 
and as we crept along at the dull rate of four miles 
per hour, I soon felt the foul fiend Ennui coming upon 
me with all her horrors. 

“ Time and the hour,” however, ‘‘ runs through 
the roughest day,” and night at length approached. 
By degrees the passengers, seemingly tired of each 
other’s company, began to creep slowly away to their 
berths; most of them fortifying themselves with a 
potation, before resigning themselves to the embrace 
of Morpheus. One called for a glass of hot whiskey 
punch, because he felt cold ; another took some brandy 
272 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

toddy to prevent his taking cold; some took mint 
juleps; some gin-slings, and some rum and water. 
One took his dram because he felt sick; another to 
make him sleep well; and a third because he had no¬ 
thing else to do. The last who retired from the 
cabin, was an old gentleman who had been deeply en¬ 
gaged in a well-thumbed volume all day, and whose 
mental abstraction I had more than once envied. He 
now laid down his book, and, pulling out a red night¬ 
cap, called for a pint of beer, to take the vapors out 
of his head. 

As soon as he had left the cabin, I took up the vol¬ 
ume, and found it to be Glanville’s marvellous book, 
entitled the History of Witches, or the Wonders of 
the Invisible World Displayed. I began to peruse it, 
and soon got so deeply interested in some of his won¬ 
derful narrations, that the hours slipped unconsciously 
away, and midnight found me poring half asleep over 
the pages. From this dreamy state I was suddenly 
aroused by a muttering, as of a suppressed voice, broken 
by groans and sounds of distress. Upon looking round, 
I saw that they proceeded from the figure of a man 
enveloped in a cloak who was lying asleep upon one 
of the benches of the cabin whom I had not previously 
noticed. I recognized him to be a young man, with 
whose singular appearance and behavior during the 
day, I had been struck. He was tall and thin in per¬ 
son, rather shabbily dressed, with long, lank, black 
hair, and large gray eyes, which gave a visionary char¬ 
acter to one of the most pallid and cadaverous coun¬ 
tenances I had ever beheld. Since he had come on 
board, he had appeared restless and unquiet, keeping 

273 


APPENDIX 


away from the table at meal times, and seeming averse 
from entering into conversation with the passengers. 
Once or twice, on catching my eye, he had slunk 
away as if, conscience-smitten by the remembrance of 
some crime, he dreaded to meet the gaze of a fellow 
mortal. From this behavior I suspected that he was 
either a fugitive from justice, or else a little disordered 
in mind ; and had resolved to keep my eye on him 
and observe what course he should take when we 
reached Utica. 

Supposing that the poor fellow was now under the 
influence of nightmare, I got up with the intention of 
giving him a shake to rouse him, when the words, 
“ murder,” “ poison,” and others of extraordinary im¬ 
port, dropping unconnectedly from his lips, induced 
me to stay my hand. “ Go away, go away,” ex¬ 
claimed he, as if conscious of my approach, but mis¬ 
taking me for another. “ Why do you continue to 
torment me ? If I did poison you, I did n’t mean to 
do it, and they can’t make that out more than man¬ 
slaughter. Besides, what’s the use of haunting me 
now ? Ain’t I going to give myself up, and tell all ? 
Begone ! I say, you bloody old hag, begone ! ” Here 
the bands of slumber were broken by the intensity of 
his feelings, and with a wild expression of counte¬ 
nance and a frame shaking with emotion, he started 
from the bench, and stood trembling before me. 

Though convinced that he was a criminal, I could 
not help pitying him from the forlorn appearance he 
now exhibited. As soon as he had collected his wan¬ 
dering ideas, it seemed as if he read in my counte¬ 
nance, the mingled sentiments of pity and abhorrence, 
274 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

with which I regarded him. Looking anxiously around, 
and seeing that we were alone, he drew the corner of 
the bench towards me, and sitting down, with an ap¬ 
parent effort to command his feelings, thus addressed 
me. His tone of voice was calm and distinct; and 
his countenance, though deadly pale, was composed. 

“ I see. Sir, that from what I am conscious of hav¬ 
ing uttered in my disturbed sleep, you suspect me of 
some horrid crime. You are right. My conscience 
convicts me, and an awful nightly visitation, worse 
than the waking pangs of remorse, compels me to con¬ 
fess it. Yes, I am a murderer. I have been the un¬ 
happy cause of blotting out the life of a fellow being 
from the page of human existence. In these pallid 
features, you may read enstamped, in the same charac¬ 
ters which the first murderer bore upon his brow. Guilt 
— guilt — guilt! ” 

Here the poor young man paused, evidently agitated 
by strong internal emotion. Collecting himself, how¬ 
ever, in a few moments, he thus continued. 

“Yet still, when you have heard my sad story, I 
think you will bestow upon me your pity. I feel that 
there is no peace for me, until I have disburthened my 
mind. Your countenance promises sympathy. Will 
you listen to my unhappy narrative ? ” 

My curiosity being strongly excited by this strange 
exordium, I told him I was ready to hear whatever he 
had to communicate. Upon this, he proceeded as fol¬ 
lows : — 

“ My name is Hippocrates Jenkins. I was born in 
Nantucket, but my father emigrated to these parts 
when I was young. I grew up in one of the most 
275 


APPENDIX 


flourishing villages on the borders of the canal. My 
father and mother both dying of the lake fever, I was 
bound apprentice to an eminent operative in the boot 
and shoe making line, who had lately come from New 
York. Would that I had remained content with this 
simple and useful profession. Would that I had stuck 
to my waxed ends and awl, and never undertaken to 
cobble up people’s bodies. But my legs grew tired of 
being trussed beneath my haunches; my elbows wearied 
with their monotonous motion; my eyes became dim 
with gazing forever upon the dull brick wall which 
faced our shop window; and my whole heart was 
sick of my sedentary, and, as I foolishly deemed it, 
particularly mean occupation. My time was nearly 
expired, and I had long resolved, should any oppor¬ 
tunity offer of getting into any other employment, I 
would speedily embrace it. 

“ I had always entertained a predilection for the 
study of medicine. What had given my mind this 
bias, I know not. Perhaps it was the perusal of an 
old volume of Doctor Buchan, over whose pages it 
was the delight of my youthful fancy to pore. Per¬ 
haps it was the oddness of my Christian cognomen, 
which surely was given me by my parents in a pro¬ 
phetic hour. Be this as it may, the summit of my 
earthly happiness was to be a doctor. Conceive then 
my delight and surprise, one Saturday evening, after 
having carried home a pair of new white-topped boots 
for Doctor Ephraim Ramshorne, who made the care 
of bodies his care, in the village, to hear him ask me, 
how I should like to be a doctor. He then very gen¬ 
erously offered to take me as a student. From my 
276 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

earliest recollections, the person and character of Doc¬ 
tor Ramshorne had been regarded by me with the most 
profound and awful admiration. Time out of mind 
the successful practitioner for many miles around, I had 
looked upon him as the heau ideal of a doctor—a very 
Apollo in the healing art. When I speak of him, 
however, as the successful practitioner, I mean it not 
to be inferred that death was less busy in his doings, 
or funerals scarcer during his dynasty; but only that 
he had, by some means or other, contrived to force all 
those who had ventured to contest the palm with him, 
to quit the field. He was large and robust in person, 
and his ruby visage showed that if he grew fat upon 
drugs, it was not by swallowing them himself. It was 
never exactly ascertained from what college the Doctor 
had received his diploma j nor was he very forward to 
exhibit his credentials. When hard pressed, however, 
he would produce a musty old roll of parchment, with 
a red seal as broad as the palm of his hand, which 
looked as if it might have been the identical diploma 
of the great Boerhaave himself, and some cramped 
manuscript of a dozen pages, in an unknown tongue, 
said by the Doctor to be his Greek thesis. These 
documents were enough to satisfy the doubts of the 
most sceptical. By the simple country people, far 
and near, the Doctor was regarded, in point of occult 
knowledge and skill, as a second Faustus. It is true, 
the village lawyer, a rival in popularity, used to whis¬ 
per, that the Doctor’s Greek thesis was nothing but a 
bundle of prescriptions for the bots, wind-galls, spav¬ 
ins, and other veterinary complaints, written in high 
Dutch by a Hessian horse doctor; that the diploma 
277 


APPENDIX 


was all a sham, and that Ephraim was no more a doc¬ 
tor than his jackass. But these assertions were all 
put down to the score of envy on the part of the law¬ 
yer. Be this as it may, on the strength of one or 
two remarkable cures, which he was said to have per¬ 
formed, and by dint of wheedling some and bullying 
others, it was certain that Ramshorne had worked 
himself into very good practice. The Doctor united 
in his own person, the attributes of apothecary and 
physician; and as he vended, as well as prescribed his 
own drugs, it was not his interest to stint his patients 
in their enormous boluses, or nauseous draughts. His 
former medical student had been worried into a con¬ 
sumption over the mortar and pestle; in consequence 
of which he had pitched upon me for his successor. 

“ By the kindness of a few friends I was fitted out 
with the necessary requisitions for my metamorphosis. 
The Doctor required no fee, and, in consideration of 
certain little services to be rendered him, such as tak¬ 
ing care of his horse, cleaning his boots, running er¬ 
rands, and doing little jobs about the house, had pro¬ 
mised to board and lodge me, besides giving me my 
professional education. So with a rusty suit of black, 
and an old plaid cloak, behold equipped the disciple of 
Esculapius. 

‘‘ I cannot describe my elation of mind, when I 
found myself fairly installed in the Doctor’s office. 
Golden visions floated before my eyes. I fancied my 
fortune already made, and blessed my happy star, that 
had fallen under the benign influence of so munificent 
a patron. 

“ The Doctor’s office, as it was called par excellence^ 
278 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

was a little nook of a room, communicating with a 
larger apartment denominated the shop. The parapher¬ 
nalia of this latter place had gotten somewhat into dis¬ 
order since the last student had gone away, and I soon 
learnt that it was to be my task to arrange the hetero¬ 
geneous mass of bottles, boxes, and gallipots, that were 
strewed about in promiscuous confusion. In the of¬ 
fice, there was a greater appearance of order. A small 
regiment of musty looking books, were drawn up in 
line upon a couple of shelves, where, to judge from 
the superincumbent strata of dust, they appeared to 
have peacefully reposed for many years. A rickety 
wooden clock, which the Doctor had taken in part 
payment from a peddler, and the vital functions of 
which, to use his own expression, had long since ceased 
to act, stood in one corner. A mouldy plaster bust of 
some unknown worthy, a few bottles of pickled, and 
one or two dried specimens of morbid anatomy, a small 
chest of drawers, a table, and a couple of chairs, com¬ 
pleted the furniture of this sanctum. The single win¬ 
dow commanded a view of the churchyard, in which, 
it was said, many of the Doctor’s former patients were 
quietly slumbering. With a feeling of reverence I 
ventured to dislodge one of the dusty tomes, and be¬ 
gan to try to puzzle out the hard words with which it 
abounded ; when suddenly, as if he had been conjured 
back, like the evil one by Cornelius Agrippa’s book, 
the Doctor made his appearance. With a gruff air, he 
snatched the volume from my hands, and telling me 
not to meddle with what I could not understand, bade 
me go and take care of his horse, and make haste back, 
as he wanted me to spread a pitch plaster, and carry 
279 


APPENDIX 


the same, with a bottle of his patent catholicon, to far¬ 
mer Van Pelt, who had the rheumatism. On my re¬ 
turn, I was ordered by Mrs. Ramshorne to split some 
wood, and kindle a fire in the parlor, as she expected 
company ; after which Miss Euphemia Ramshorne, a 
sentimental young lady, who was as crooked in person 
and crabbed in temper as her own name, despatched 
me to the village circulating library, in quest of the 
Mysteries of Udolpho. I soon found out that my 
place was no sinecure. The greater part of my time 
was occupied in compounding certain quack medicines, 
of Ramshorne’s own invention, from which he derived 
great celebrity, and no inconsiderable profit. Besides 
his patent catholicon, and universal panacea, there was 
his anti-pertusso-balsamico drops, his patent calorific 
refrigerating anodyne, and his golden restorative of 
nature. Into the business of compounding these, and 
other articles with similar high-sounding titles, I was 
gradually initiated, and soon aquired so much skill in 
their manipulation, that my services became indispen¬ 
sable to my master j so much so, that he was obliged 
to hire a little negro to take care of his horse, and clean 
his boots. What chiefly reconciled me to the drudg¬ 
ery of the shop, was the seeing how well the Doctor 
got paid for his villainous compounds. A mixture of 
a little brick dust, rosin, and treacle, dignified with 
the title of the anthelminthic amalgam, he sold for half 
a dollar ; and a bottle of vinegar and alum, with a lit¬ 
tle rose water to give it a flavor, yclept the anti-scrof¬ 
ulous abstergent lotion, brought twice that sum. I 
longed for the day when I should dispense my own 
medicines, and in my hours of castle-building, looked 
280 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

forward to fortunes far beyond those of the renowned 
Dr. Solomon. Alas ! my fond hopes have been 
blighted in their bud. I have drunk deeply of the nau¬ 
seous draught of adversity, and been forced to swallow 
many bitter pills of disappointment. But I find I am 
beginning to smell of the shop. I must return to my 
sad tale. The same accident, which not unfrequently 
before had put a sudden stop to the Doctor’s patients’ 
taking any more of his nostrums, at length prevented 
him from reaping any longer their golden harvest. 
One afternoon, after having dined with his friend. 
Squire Gobbledown, he came home, and complained 
of not feeling very well. By his directions, I prepared 
for him some of his elixir sanitatis, composed of brandy 
and bitters, of which he took an inordinate dose. 
Shortly after, he was seized with a fit of apoplexy, and 
before bedtime, in spite of all the drugs in the shop, 
which I poured down with unsparing hand, he had 
breathed his last. In three days, Ramshorne was qui¬ 
etly deposited in the churchyard, in the midst of those 
he had sent there before him. 

“ Having resided with the Doctor for several years, 
I had become pretty well known throughout the neigh¬ 
borhood, particularly among the old ladies, whose good 
graces I had always sedulously cultivated. I accord¬ 
ingly resolved to commence quacking — I mean prac¬ 
tising— on my own account. Having obtained my 
late master’s stock of drugs from his widow at an easy 
rate, and displaying my own name in golden letters as 
his successor, to work I went, with the internal re¬ 
solve that where Ramshorne had given one dose, I 
would give six. 


281 


APPENDIX 


“For a time, Fortune seemed to smile upon me, 
and everything went on well. All the old women 
were loud in sounding my praises, far and near. The 
medicaments of my master, continued to be in demand, 
and treacle, brick dust, and alum came to a good mar¬ 
ket. Some drawbacks, however, I occasionally met 
with. Having purchased the patent right of one of 
Thompson’s steam baths, in my first experiment I 
came near flaying alive a rheumatic tanner, who had 
submitted himself to the operation. By an unfortu¬ 
nate mistake in regulating the steam he was nearly 
parboiled ; and it was supposed that the thickness of 
his hide alone preserved his vitals uninjured. I was 
myself threatened with the fate of Marsyas, by the en¬ 
raged sufferer; which he was happily prevented from 
attempting to inflict, by a return of his malady, which 
has never since left him. I however after this gave 
up steaming, and confined myself to regular practice. 
At length, either the charm of novelty wearing off, or 
people beginning to discover the inefficacy of the old 
nostrums, I was obliged to exert my wits to invent 
new ones. These I generally took the precaution to 
try upon cats or dogs, before using them upon the hu¬ 
man system. They were, however, mostly of an in¬ 
nocent nature, and I satisfied my conscience with the 
reflection, that if they did no good, they could at least 
do no harm. Happy would it have been for me, 
could I always have done thus. Meeting with suc¬ 
cess in my first efforts, I by degrees ventured upon 
more active ingredients. At length in an evil hour, I 
invented a curious mixture composed of forty-nine 
different articles. This I dubbed in high-flowing 
282 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

terms ‘ The Antidote to Death, or the Eternal Elixir 
of Longevity; ’ knowing full well that though 

‘ A rose might smell as sweet by any other name,’ 

yet would not my drugs find as good a sale under a 
more humble title. This cursed compound proved 
the antidote to all my hopes of success. Besides forc¬ 
ing me to quit the village in a confounded hurry, it 
has embittered my life ever since, and reduced me to 
the ragged and miserable plight in which you see me. 

“ I dare say you have met with that species of old 
women, so frequent in all country towns, who, seem¬ 
ing to have outlived the common enjoyments of life, 
and outworn the ordinary sources of excitement, seek 
fresh stimulus in scenes of distress, and appear to take 
a morbid pleasure in beholding the varieties of human 
suffering and misery. One of the most noted characters 
in the village was an old beldame of this description. 
Granny Gordon, so she was familiarly denominated, 
was the rib of the village Vulcan, and the din of her 
eternal tongue was only equalled by the ringing of her 
husband’s anvil. Thin and withered away in person 
and redolent with snuff, she bore no small resemblance 
to a newly-exhumed mummy, and to all appearance 
promised to last as long as one of those ancient dames 
of Egypt. Not a death, a burial, a fit of sickness, a 
casualty, nor any of the common calamities of life ever 
occurred in the vicinity, but Granny Gordon made it 
her especial business to be present. Wrapped in an 
old scarlet cloak, — that hideous cloak! the thought 
of it makes me shudder — she might be seen hovering 
about the dwelling of the sick. Watching her oppor¬ 
tunity, she would make her way into the patient’s 
283 


APPENDIX 


chamber, and disturb his repose with long dismal stories 
and ill-boding predictions; and if turned from the 
house, which was not unfrequently the case, she would 
depart, muttering threats and abuse. 

‘‘As the Indians propitiate the favor of the devil, so 
had I, in my eagerness to acquire popularity, made a 
firm friend and ally, though rather a troublesome one, 
of this old woman. She was one of my best custom¬ 
ers, and, provided it was something new, and had a 
high-sounding name to recommend it, would take my 
most nauseous compounds with the greatest relish. 
Indeed the more disgusting was the dose, the greater 
in her opinion was its virtue. 

“ I had just corked the last bottle of my antidote, 
when a message came to tell me that Granny Gordon 
had one of her old fits, and wanted some new doctor- 
stuff, as the old physic did n’t do her any more good. 
Not having yet given my new pharmaceutic prepara¬ 
tion a trial, I felt a little doubtful about its effects, but 
trusting to the toughness of the old woman’s system, 
I ventured to send a potion, with directions to take it 
cautiously. Not many minutes had elapsed, before 
the messenger returned, in breathless haste, to say that 
Mrs. Gordon was much worse, and that though she 
had taken all the stuff, they believed she was dying. 
With a vague foreboding of evil, I seized my hat, and 
hastened to the blacksmith’s. On entering the cham¬ 
ber my eyes were greeted with a sad spectacle. 
Granny Gordon, bolstered up in the bed, holding in 
her hand the bottle I had sent her, drained of its con¬ 
tents, sat gasping for breath, and occasionally agitated 
by strong convulsions. A co{d sweat rested on her 
284 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

forehead, her eyes seemed dim and glazed, her nose, 
which was usually of a ruby hue, was purple and 
peaked, and her whole appearance evidently betokened 
approaching dissolution. 

“ Around the bed were collected some half dozen 
withered beldames who scowled upon me, as I entered, 
with ill-omened visages. Her husband, a drunken 
brute, who used to beat his better half six times a week, 
immediately began to load me with abuse, accusing me 
of having poisoned his dear, dear wife, and threatening 
to be the death of me, if she died. 

‘‘My conscience smote me. I felt stupefied and 
bewildered, and knew not which way to turn. At 
this moment, the patient perceiving me, with a hideous 
contortion of countenance, the expression of which I 
shall carry to my dying hour, and a voice between a 
scream and a groan, held up the empty bottle, and ex¬ 
claimed, ‘This is your doing, you villainous quack 
you’ (here she was seized with hiccup); — ‘you have 
poisoned me, you have’ (here fearful spasms shook 
her whole frame) ; — ‘but I ’ll be revenged ; day and 
night my ghost shall haunt ’— here her voice became 
inarticulate, and shaking her withered arm at me, she 
fell back, and to my extreme horror, gave up the ghost. 
This was too much for my nerves. I rushed from 
the house, and ran home with the dying curse ringing 
in my ears, fancying that I saw her hideous physiog¬ 
nomy, grinning from every bush and tree that I passed. 
Knowing that as soon as the noise of this affair should 
get abroad, the village would be too hot to hold me, I 
resolved to decamp as silently as possible. First throw¬ 
ing all my recently manufactured anodyne into the canal, 

285 


APPENDIX 


that it should not rise in judgment against me, I made 
up a little bundle of clothes, and taking my seat in the 
mail stage, which was passing at the time and fortu¬ 
nately empty, in a couple of days I found myself in 
the great city of New York. Having a little money 
with me, I hired a mean apartment in an obscure part 
of the city, in the hope that I might remain concealed 
till all search after me should be over, when I might 
find some opportunity of getting employment, or of 
resuming my old profession, under happier auspices. 
By degrees the few dollars I brought with me were 
expended, and after pawning my watch and some of 
my clothes, I found myself reduced to the last shilling. 
But not the fear of impending starvation, nor the dread 
of a jail, are to be compared to the horrors I nightly 
suffer. Granny Gordon has been as good as her word. 
Every night, at the solemn hour of twelve ” (here he 
looked fearfully around) — “ her ghost appears to me, 
wrapped in a red cloak, with her gray hairs streaming 
from beneath an old nightcap of the same color, bran¬ 
dishing the vial, and accusing me of having poisoned 
her. These visitations have at length become so insup¬ 
portable, that I have resolved to return and give my¬ 
self up to justice j for I feel that hanging itself is better 
than this state of torment.” 

Here the young man ceased. I plainly saw that 
he was a little disordered in his intellect. To com¬ 
fort him, however, I told him that if he had killed 
fifty old women, they could do nothing to him, if he 
had done it professionally. And as for the ghost, we 
would take means to have that put at rest, when we 
reached Utica. 


286 


THE HAUNTED QUACK 

About the gray of the morning, we arrived at the 
place of our destination. My protege having unbur- 
thened his mind, seemed more at his ease, and taking a 
mint julep, prepared to accompany me on shore. As 
we were leaving the boat, several persons in a wagon 
drove down to the wharf. As soon as my companion 
observed them, he exclaimed with a start of surprise, 
“ Hang me, if there is n’t old Graham the sheriff, and 
lawyer Dickson, and Bill Gordon come to take me.” 
As he spoke, his foot slipping, he lost his balance, and 
fell backwards into the canal. We drew him from 
the water, and as soon as the persons in the wagon 
perceived him, they one and all sprang out, and ran 
up with the greatest expressions of joyful surprise. 
“Why, Hippy, my lad,” exclaimed the sheriff, “where 
have you been ? All our town has been in a snarl 
about you. We all supposed you had been forcibly 
abducted. Judge Bates offered a reward of twenty 
dollars for your corpse. We have dragged the canal 
for more than a mile, and found a mass of bottles, 
which made us think you had been spirited away. 
Betsey Wilkins made her affidavit that she heard Bill 
Gordon swear that he would take your life, and here 
you see we have brought him down to have his trial. 
But come, come, jump in the wagon, we ’ll take you 
up to the tavern, to get your duds dried, and tell you 
all about it.” 

Here a brawny fellow with a smutty face, who I 
found was Gordon the blacksmith, came up, and shak¬ 
ing Hippocrates by the hand, said, “ By goles. Doctor, 
I am glad to see you. If you had n’t come back I 
believe it would have gone hard with me. Come, 
287 


APPENDIX 


man, you must forgive the hard words I gave vou. 
My old woman soon got well of her fit, after you 
went away, and says she thinks the stuff did her a 
mortal sight o' good.” 

It is impossible to describe the singular expression 
the countenance of the young man now exhibited. 
For some time he stood in mute amazement, shaking 
with cold, and gazing alternately at each of his friends 
as they addressed him ; and it required their reiterated 
assurance to convince him, that Granny Gordon was 
still in the land of the living, and that he had not 
been haunted by a veritable ghost. 

Wishing to obtain a further explanation of this 
strange scene, I accompanied them to the tavern. A 
plain-looking man in a farmer’s dress, who was of the 
party, confirmed what the blacksmith had said, as to 
the supposed death of his wife and her subsequent re¬ 
covery. “ She was only in a swoond,” said he, “ but 
came to, soon after the Doctor had left her.” He 
added that it was his private opinion that she would 
now last forever. He spoke of Hippocrates as a “ ’na¬ 
tion smart doctor, who had a power of laming, but 
gave severe doses.” 

After discussing a good breakfast, my young friend 
thanked me for the sympathy and interest I had taken 
in his behalf. He told me he intended returning to 
the practice of his profession. I admonished him to 
be more careful in the exhibition of his patent medi¬ 
cines, telling him that all old women had not nine 
lives. He shook hands with me, and, gayly jumping 
into the wagon, rode off with his friends. 

288 


THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 


S OME years ago it was my destiny to reside in 
a New England village. Nothing can be plea¬ 
santer than its situation. All that nature ever 
did for a place, she has done for this. It is sheltered on 
the north by high hills, and fringed on the south with 
forests of oaks and elms 5 it has waterfalls and cas¬ 
cades, and, what is more surprising, they are suffered to 
flow on through meadow and valley, without being con¬ 
demned to the treadmill. In this country everything is 
compelled to do duty. Our forests are cut down for 
firewood ; our rocks hewn into state prisons, and some 
of our modern speculators mean to make old Niagara, 
that has roared and bellowed so many hundred years 
for its own amusement, actually work for its living, 
and support cotton and woollen manufactures. 

But to return to my village. It is not called a 
flourishing one, for there is no distillery, and no jail 
in it. But they have straw bonnet manufactories, 
working societies, and reading societies, and the fe¬ 
males actually raised ten dollars fifty-two cents for the 
emancipation of the Greeks. 

While I resided there, I became intimately ac¬ 
quainted with the clergyman, and it was my constant 
habit to call on him every evening for a stroll. He 
was just such a man as the ladies call a marrying man, 
yet, strange to tell, he was still a bachelor. There 
289 


APPENDIX 


was a village legend that he had been crossed in love ; 
but disappointments of the heart generate suspicion 
and misanthropy, and no one could be more confiding 
and guileless than he was. His sensibilities seemed 
to be in their first spring. His fair smooth forehead, 
his broad chest and Boanerges voice, gave no evidence 
that he had wasted his health in scientific or theologi¬ 
cal pursuits; yet he was well read in Scripture, and 
could quote chapter and verse on every contested 
point. For many years he had made no use of a Con¬ 
cordance, for he was a living one himself. The prac¬ 
tical part of his profession formed its beauty in him. 
He might well teach temperance, for necessary arti¬ 
cles of food were all he coveted ; he could talk of 
charity with the “tongue of an angel,” for it was not 
with him tinkling brass or empty sound ; from his five 
hundred dollars salary there was always an overplus, 
that brought upon him “the blessing of those that 
were ready to perish.” Perhaps there was a little too 
much minuteness about worldly affairs, and yet it was 
an excellent example for others. There was also a bit 
too much of the parish register in his cast of mind; 
he could tell how many he had married, how many he 
had christened, and how many he had buried; how 
many prayers he had made, and how many sermons he 
had written. All this was very well ; but when he 
undertook to know people’s ages better than they did 
themselves, it would have been intolerably provoking, 
if he had not always been able to prove he was right 
by parish records. He had a love for agriculture that 
contributed to his health, and agreeably diversified his 
employments. The piece of land that was set off to 
290 


THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 


the parsonage was always in excellent order, and the 
invalids of his parish might count upon the first mess 
of peas and the first plate of strawberries from his 
garden. 

Our walk often led by a farm that had once been 
the summer residence of an opulent family. The 
grounds were laid out originally with much taste; 
but it had passed into the hands of various owners. 
They had cut down the trees that they might not ob¬ 
struct the view of the road, and suffered the buildings 
to go to decay, because it cost money to repair them. 
There was an air of desolate grandeur about the 
house, that inspired sensations wholly unlike the trim, 
square houses of the village. It was too far from the 
road, and too large to be tenanted. Besides, the farm 
was run out. In short, it was unpopular, and nobody 
would live on it. It was said that it might be “ bought 
for a song,” but it was so out of repair and so com¬ 
fortless, that nobody appeared to purchase it. It 
had gone through the “ pitiless pelting ” of a severe 
winter uninhabited, and nothing could be more dreary 
than it looked, half buried in snow; but when the 
spring came on, and the grass grew green, and the 
wild roses blossomed, and the creepers hung cluster¬ 
ing about the doors and windows, it was a place that 
might have tempted any lover of solitude and nature. 

In a small country village, however, there are few 
who come under this class. All have a practical love 
of nature, but not many a sentimental one ; and it was 
with a degree of contempt that it was discovered, in the 
month of June, that the house was actually inhabited. 
Much speculation was excited, and the place that 
291 


APPENDIX 

stood in desolate neglect became an object of curiosity 
and interest. 

I had had some thoughts of purchasing the place, and 
tried to persuade myself that it would be a good way 
of investing a small sum, when I learnt that a Mr. 
Forester had been beforehand with me, and had taken 
possession of the house. I felt a degree of disappoint¬ 
ment that the previously irresolute state of my mind 
by no means authorized. Soon after this occurrence, 
I quitted the village, and removed to a different part 
of the country. 

Ten years passed away, and I made no effort to re¬ 
new my intercourse with my old friend the clergyman. 
In consequence of indisposition I found it actually 
necessary last year to journey. My recollections im¬ 
mediately turned to the village where I had before 
found health, and I once more directed my course 
towards it. 

It was on Sunday morning that I entered the town 

of H-, about ten miles from the village. I knew 

too well the primitive habits of my friend the clergy¬ 
man, to break in upon his Sabbath morning, and I de¬ 
termined to remain where I was till the next day. 

It is a church-going place. When I saw couple 
after couple pass the window of the tavern at which I 
had stationed myself in mere idleness, I began to feel 
an inclination to go to church too. 

I entered the nearest one, and when the minister 
arose, found to my surprise that it was my old friend. 
He did not appear to have altered since I last saw 
him; his voice was equally powerful, his person rather 
fuller. I recognized in his prayers and sermon, the 
292 



THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 


same expressions he had used ten years ago —• and why 
not ? They were drawn from his book of knowledge. 
There was still the same simplicity and the same fer¬ 
vor that had first interested me, and when the services 
were over, and I shook hands with him, it seemed even 
to me, who am not given to illusion, that we had parted 
but yesterday. 1 tried to make out by his appearance 
whether he had married, but I was baffled — the outer 
man had undergone no change. He told me that he 
should return home after the evening service, and in¬ 
vited me to take a seat in his chaise with him. I 
readily accepted the invitation. When he called for 
me, he said, “Don’t forget your portmanteau, for I 
must keep you at my house for a few days.” 

As we jogged along, for his horse never departed 
from his Sunday pace even on week days, I asked him 
what had become of the Foresters. “ Do they still 
retain the farm that ought to have been mine ? ” said 
I. A color like the mellow tint of a russetine apple 
that had been perfectly preserved through the winter, 
rose in his cheek as he replied: “ Part of the family 
are there; if you like I will give you an account of 
them.” I assented; but when I found he was settling 
himself as if for a long story, my heart died within 
me. I knew his minuteness on every subject, and 
that to have added or diminished an iota would have 
been to him palpable fraud and injustice. By degrees, 
however, I became interested in his narrative. 

“ Soon after you left me, I became intimate with 
Mr. Forester. He was a sensible, intelligent man, 
and his wife was a very worthy woman. They had 
two children, who were full of health and gayety. Mr. 

293 


APPENDIX 


Forester entered upon farming with great zeal, and 
the place soon wore a different aspect. The vener¬ 
able trees that had been cut down could not be re¬ 
stored, but repairs were made, the stone walls rebuilt, 
and all indicated that the new tenant was a man of 
order and good habits. He had not been accustomed 
to farming, but he was assiduous in finding out the 
best and most approved methods of ploughing, plant¬ 
ing, and managing his land. Nothing could be more 
successful than his industry. The third year his crops 
were abundant, and his wife began to talk of her dairy, 
and exhibit her butter and cheese in the country style. 
The inhabitants of the village found they managed 
their affairs so well, that they were content to let 
them go on without interfering. Mrs. Forester ac¬ 
commodated herself to the habits and customs of those 
around her with wonderful facility, and was a general 
favorite. 

“Instead of passing the house as you and I used to 
in our walk, I now every evening turned up the ave¬ 
nue, and spent half an hour with them. The chil¬ 
dren called me uncle, and ran to meet me j their mo¬ 
ther, too, would follow them with a step almost as 
light. She played upon the guitar, and though I was 
not acquainted with the instrument, and thought it fee¬ 
ble compared to the bass viol, yet I loved to hear it 
chiming with her sweet voice. 

“When I looked at this happy family, I felt new 
sympathies springing up in my heart, and began to be 
almost dissatisfied with my solitary home. I some¬ 
times thought Mr. Forester was not as tranquil and 
contented as his wife; but he had lived in the world, 
294 


The children 


ran to meet me 








% 



i 









THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 

and it was natural that he should feel the want of that 
society to which he had been accustomed. 

“ It was on the third year of their residence in the 
village, that I was invited to visit them with more form 
than usual. Mrs. Forester said, that she and the chil¬ 
dren were going to celebrate the fifth anniversary of 
her marriage. She had many of the fanciful contriv¬ 
ances of her sex to give interest to the daily routine 
of life. She had placed her table under an arbor, cov¬ 
ered with honeysuckles and sweetbrier, and loaded it 
with fruit and the abundance of her good housewifery. 
The grass that had been newly mown was distributed 
around us in heaps. At a little distance from the ar¬ 
bor, and behind it, stood the large barn, with the huge 
folding doors open at each end. Through this we had 
a view of the house, and beyond it the country round, 
with its fields waving with grain, its peaceful streams, 
its green valleys, its distant hills, and, what in my opin¬ 
ion added greatly to the beauty of the prospect, the 
spire of my own church rising from a grove of trees. 
I must not forget to mention the Merrimack that was 
in front of us, moving on in the majesty of its deep, 
blue waters, and bearing on its bosom the various craft 
of inland navigation. It was a glorious scene, and we 
all felt it such. ‘ Here at least, ’ said I, ‘ we may 
worship God in the temple of his own beauty ! ’ I 
looked at Mrs. Forester. Women have quick sensi¬ 
bilities. I saw the tears were coursing each other 
down her cheeks; but they were like the raindrops 
of summer, and her smiles returned more gayly. The 
children had taken many a trip from the house to the 
arbor, with their baskets and aprons loaded with cakes 
295 


APPENDIX 


and fruits. We all gathered round the table. Mrs. 
Forester was as gay as her children. She played upon 
her guitar, and sung modern songs, which I am sorry 
to say had more music than sense in them. In the 
midst of one of these we heard footsteps. A man 
stood at the entrance of the arbor, and laid his hand 
on Mr. Forester’s shoul(Jer. He started, and turned 
round j then, taking the man by the arm, walked away. 
‘I wish,’ said Mrs. Forester impatiently, ‘ he had 
not interrupted us just as we were so happy.’ 

“ ‘ Do you know him ? ’ said I. ‘ No, ’ she re¬ 
plied, ‘ I can’t say I do, and yet I remember seeing 
him soon after we were married. I believe,’ added 
she, coloring and laughing, ‘ I never told you that 
ours was a runaway match. It has turned out so well, 
and our troubles have terminated so happily, that I am 
not afraid to confess my imprudence to you. I was 
an orphan, and lived with my grandmother, who was 
as different from me in her habits and opinions as old 
people usually are from young ones. She thought 
singing was bad for the lungs, that dancing would 
throw me into a fever, and the night air into a con¬ 
sumption. I differed from her in all these opinions, 
and yet was obliged to conform. After I became ac¬ 
quainted with Mr. Forester, we differed still more. She 
said he was a stranger that nobody knew; I said I 
knew him perfectly. In short, she told me if I in¬ 
tended to marry him, she would forbid the banns. I 
thought it best to save her the trouble, and so I tied 
up a little bundle, and walked off with my husband 
that is now. 

“ ‘ The good old lady lived to see him well estab- 
296 


THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 

lished in business as a lawyer, and became quite recon¬ 
ciled. I loved her sincerely, and now that I was 
independent, willingly accommodated myself to her 
habits. She died soon after the birth of my first child, 
Ellen, who was named for her. She left me five 
thousand dollars, which is now invested in this farm, 
and I trust will be the inheritance of my children.* 

“ May I ask,* said I, ‘ why you left your native 
place ?* ‘I hardly know,* said shej ‘my husband 
thought the air did not agree with him. He grew 
melancholy and abstracted, and then I began to dislike 
it too, and was quite ready to quit it. We removed 

to B-. My husband carried his reputation and 

talents with him, and was again successful in the prac¬ 
tice of law. In the course of a few months his com¬ 
plaints returned, and he then thought it was country 
air he wanted, and an entire change of life. The 
event has proved so. We quitted the languid and 
enervating climate of the South, and travelled North. 
We gave up all our former associations, and to make 
the change more complete, my husband took the 
name of an uncle who brought him up, and relin¬ 
quished his own. It is now three years since we have 
resided here, and I don’t know that he has had any 
return of ill health or nervous affections since.’ 

‘‘At that moment Mr. Forester returned, accom¬ 
panied by the stranger. He approached his wife, and 
said, ‘Here is an old acquaintance, Mary; you must 
make him welcome.* There was an expression in 
the countenance of the guest that appalled us. It 
seemed to communicate its baleful influence to the 
whole circle. Mr. Forester looked pale and anxious; 
297 



APPENDIX 


the gayety was gone; nobody sung or laughed; we 
scarcely spoke. All was changed. The stranger 
seemed to have had a blighting effect on the master of 
the house; for from this time his health and spirits 
gradually forsook him. Signs of poverty appeared, 
and he announced to his wife that he must move else¬ 
where. She was thunderstruck. The legacy of her 
aunt had been invested in the purchase of the farm. 
To give up that was relinquishing the inheritance of 
her children. She remonstrated, but without effect; 
he declined all explanation. With deep regret I saw 
them quit the village. 

“ Mrs. Forester had promised to write me when they 
were again fixed in any permanent situation. It was 
nearly two years before I received a letter. That 
letter I have now in my pocket-book. It has remained 
there since I first received it. Here it is ! ” 

I knew too well his exact habits to be surprised at 
the perfect state of preservation in which I saw it. It 
was as follows : — 

“ I rejoice that I can give you cheerful accounts, 
my much respected friend, of my husband and myself. 
After we left you, we removed to a remote town in 
the West, and here we are. We have given up farm¬ 
ing, and my husband has opened an office. As he is 
the only lawyer in the place, he has made his way 
extremely well. I wish I could say I am as happy 
as you once saw me; but this mode of life is not 
to my taste, nor do I think it agrees with my hus¬ 
band. I have never seen him so tranquil as the three 

short years we passed at N-. There is something 

in the life of a farmer peculiarly soothing. The sun 



THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 


never rose so bright to me as at that period. I do not 
think Eve was as happy in her paradise as I was in 
mine; for her fruits grew spontaneously, but mine 
were produced by the united efforts of head and hands, 
and gave exercise to all my powers. My children are 
well. My husband’s health is not very good; this 
plodding life does not agree with him; he is subject 
to low spirits. I sometimes have sad forebodings of 

the future ; if I could only get back to N-, I 

think all would go well.” 

This was the purport of the letter. I returned it 
to my friend, and he resumed his narrative. 

“ About a year from the time I received the letter, 
I took a journey to Montreal to visit a sister who was 
settled there. In passing one of the streets I recog¬ 
nized Mr. Forester; but he was so altered in his ap¬ 
pearance that I doubted if it could be he. He held 
out his hand, and I found, upon inquiring, that they had 
made another remove to Montreal. He was emaci¬ 
ated in his person, and there was a nervous agitation 
in his manner that alarmed me. I begged him to con¬ 
duct me to his wife. ‘With all my heart,’ said he, 
‘ but you will be surprised at our menage,^ I accom¬ 
panied him to a low, dilapidated building, in which 
everything bespoke poverty. Mrs. Forester gave me 
a mournful welcome. She, too, was greatly changed; 
but her children were still blooming and healthy, and 
appeared unconscious of the cloud that hung over their 
parents. 

“ My visit was short; I perceived it was an em¬ 
barrassing one; but in taking leave, I said, ‘ If you 

have any commands to your old friends at N-, 

299 




APPENDIX 


here is my address/ I had not been home long, be¬ 
fore William Forester brought me a note from his 
mother, requesting to see me. I immediately returned 
with him, and found her alone. She was free and 
undisguised in her communication; said there was 
some dreadful mystery hung over them, and that what¬ 
ever it was, it was hurrying her husband to the grave. 
‘ I should not have spoken,’ added she, ‘ had not this 
conviction made all scruples weigh light in the bal¬ 
ance. I think it possible he may reveal to you what 
he will not to me. At least, see him before you quit 

Montreal. If we could once more return to N-, 

we might yet be happy.’ 

“ I again called to see him. Never was there a 
human being more changed. He was dull, abstracted, 
and silent; and I began to think his mind was im¬ 
paired. I used every argument in my power to per¬ 
suade him to return to N-, and tried to convince 

him it was a duty he owed to his wife and children. 
He only replied that it would do no good j neither 
they nor he would be happier ; that there was nothing 
I could say to him with regard to himself that his own 
mind had not suggested. He acknowledged that he 
had a secret source of calamity, but said it was beyond 
human power to mitigate it, that the kindest part would 
be to let him alone; that he had never intruded his 
sorrows on others, and he asked no participation ; that 
happily there was a termination to all things here, and 
his sufferings could not last forever. I told him, that 
if he was alone in the world, he might reason justly; 
but he must feel that there was one human being at 
least, that was doomed to participate in his good or 
300 




THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 

bad fortune, and who was made wretched by his mys- 
terious conduct. 

“ ‘ Has she spoken to you ? ’ said he fiercely. 

“ ‘ There needs no other language,’ replied I, ‘ than 
her pale cheek and wasted form. You, who see her 
daily, cannot realize the change that has taken place; 

but I, who saw her last at N-, blooming, and 

happy, full of health and gayety, alive to all that was 
beautiful in creation — can I agree with you that you 
alone are the sufferer ? ’ I found I had touched the 
chord to which his heart vibrated; I pursued the 
subject, and finally obtained the victory. He pro¬ 
mised me solemnly to return in the course of a few 
weeks. 

“ It was with heartfelt pleasure I set about prepar¬ 
ing for them. I had the old shattered mansion put 
into comfortable repair, and took a half a year’s salary in 
pork, grain, and live stock, much to the satisfaction of 
my parishioners, who had rather pay in produce than 
money, and it was all cheerfully transferred to the deso¬ 
late building. It was the last day of November when 
they arrived, and the snow lay three feet deep on the 
ground. The old trees that remained with their dry, 
straggling branches, stood on each side of the avenue 
like a procession of mourners. In winter there is 
but little for a farmer to do, except foddering his 
cattle and preparing for the coming spring. Mr. For¬ 
ester had no stock or materials, and his life was an 
idle one. I could not but think Providence had won¬ 
derfully marked its bounty to the other sex, when I 
saw how cheerfully and constantly Mrs. Forester 
found employment. Her color and spirit returned, 
301 



APPENDIX 

and again I heard her singing songs that seemed only 
made for summer. 

“ I have hitherto said but little of myself. I had 
dwindled into a kind of insignificance in my own 
mind, and was thought to be a confirmed old bache¬ 
lor. Even my neighbor, Miss Keziah Spinney, no 
longer attempted to pour in the oil and the wine, but 
passed on to the other side. I confess, however, that I 
sometimes looked back with lingering regret on the 
years I had loitered away. I could count up to fifty- 
two. After twenty-five they were all dull, cheerless 
blanks except in the way of duty, and every faithful 
minister knows how many omissions must press upon 
his recollection. March had arrived, and we had rea¬ 
sonable expectations that the severity of the winter 
was over; but it did not prove so. There came a 
violent driving snowstorm, and I did not visit the For¬ 
esters for several days. At length I received a mes¬ 
sage from them requesting to see me. Mrs. Forester 
met me at the door. ‘ My husband,’ said she, ‘ is very 
ill. Do you remember our visitor on the fifth anni¬ 
versary of our marriage? Twice since he has come. 
God knows what malignant power he has over us ; 
but it is terrible in its effects. Yesterday he came sud¬ 
denly upon us ; his visit was short, but immediately 
after his departure, my husband complained of great 
oppression upon the lungs, and this morning he has been 
seized with a hemorrhage. O my dear friend,’ con¬ 
tinued she, wringing my hand, ‘ go to him, tell him 
there is nothing he can reveal so dreadful as this sus¬ 
pense. I can endure it no longer; my reason will be 
the sacrifice.’ 


302 


THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 


“ I hastened to his apartment. He was in bed; his 
countenance was pale, but calm. ‘ I am glad you have 
come,’ said he; ‘I have a confession to make.’ At 
that moment his wife entered. He called her to his 
bedside, and, as she knelt down, he looked earnestly 
at her, and his courage appeared to fail. But in a few 
moments he resumed. ‘ I had hoped that I might die 
with my secret unrevealed; but now that I believe 
myself on my death-bed, the judgment of my fellow- 
creatures loses its importance. And yet,’ said he, 
turning to his wife, ‘ to voluntarily relinquish your 
esteem, to be remembered by you only with horror! 
O, if suffering could expiate guilt, these pangs would 
atone ! ’ 

“Never shall I forget the expression of her counte¬ 
nance, the noble, the sublime expression, as she leaned 
over him. ‘ My friend, my husband,’ said she, ‘ fear 
nothing from me. Whatever may be the circum¬ 
stances to which you allude, they cannot now influence 
my affection. The years we have passed together are 
all that identify you with me. Speak without hesi¬ 
tation.’ 

“ ‘ I will be brief,’ said he, ‘ for my strength is fail¬ 
ing. My early life was one of dissipation and prof¬ 
ligacy. My father gave me all the opportunities of a 
good education, and a lucrative profession. He died, 
and left my mother destitute. I persuaded myself it 
was a duty to run all risks to place her in an inde¬ 
pendent situation. Frequently I returned from the 
gambling table, and poured money into her lap. The 
poor, deceived parent blessed and applauded me. I 
went through all the changes of a gamester, and at 

303 


APPENDIX 


length found myself deeply in debt. A horrible chance 
presented — it was one of fraud and treachery. I pur¬ 
loined a sum entrusted to me—was detected !’ — he 
seemed unable to proceed. ‘ I was sentenced to two 
years’ imprisonment,’ continued he, in a low voice. 
‘ Though sunk and degraded, I was not lost. I loathed 
the vices that had undone me. I turned with horror 
from the profligacy by which I was surrounded. My 
conduct was such that the term of my imprisonment 
was shortened. I received a pardon. My poor mother 
had died broken-hearted. I quitted Havana ; for this 
was the scene of my guilt and disgrace. At Rich¬ 
mond I by degrees gained access to good society. I 
was persevering and industrious. You know, my dear 
Mary, how I became acquainted with you, and now 
you may perceive that when I married you, I added a 
new crime, that of deception, to my catalogue of 
sins. I truly loved you, and I could not resist temp¬ 
tation. My business was lucrative, everything around 
me prosperous, and if vice had left no sting, I might 
have been the happiest of mortals. But not all the 
rivers of Damascus, nor the waters of Jordan, can 
wash out the stains of the soul. I was haunted by 
remembrance of the past. There was something so 
unlike retributive justice in my prosperity, that I felt 
as if even this success portended some dreadful re¬ 
verse. Fool that I was, not to perceive that the terror 
and anxiety that consumed my hours, was retributive 
justice! When I pressed her whom I loved best to 
my bosom, I thought what would become of her if 
she knew she was the wife of a felon! 

“ ‘ Such was the state of my mind while everybody 

304 


THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 

congratulated me on my happiness. I was nominated 
for an office of trust. A few days after the election 
had taken place, I received a note requesting me to 
come to a particular place if I would avoid public dis¬ 
grace. I went to the spot with a beating heart, and 
found, to my horror, a fellow convict ! When I 
quitted the prison, I had left him there. He had stayed 
out his term, and accident brought him to Richmond. 
His object was to extort money. I gave him what he 
asked, as the bribe of secrecy. Again and again he 
came. My anxiety grew insupportable. Horrible 
thoughts crossed my mind. I sometimes felt that 
either he or I must be sacrificed. I gave up all but 
my wife and children, and left Richmond in hopes of 
concealment from my persecutor. The rest you know. 
As soon as I began to acquire credit and property, my 
tormentor appeared, and nearly stripped me. For 
three years, I lived on this spot unmolested; and I 
began to think he was dead. You know how, in the 
midst of apparent security and happiness, he came 
upon us. Twice he has visited me since. Yesterday 
he arrived. But Heaven is merciful. The disorder 
that for months has been undermining my life is 
brought to a crisis. With the near prospect of death, 
I have gained fortitude. I might say something in 
extenuation of my guilt. But why should I ? — 
There is a Judge, and he is merciful.’ 

“ Such was the unhappy man’s story. He was mis¬ 
taken in believing his end so near. He lingered on 
for months. His confession had rendered the scourge 
of his persecutor powerless. His decay was gradual, 
and he lived till June. His wife and myself were his 

305 


APPENDIX 


constant attendants. He saw that her affection was 
undiminished j that it was the labor of love, and not 
of compassion, that bound her to his side. He died, 
trusting in divine mercy, and commending to my care 
his wife and children.” 

“ And you have performed this dying injunction 
most faithfully, I doubt not,” said I to the good 
man. 

Again the color rose to his cheek. “ I have,” said 
he, “ to the best of my power. At the end of two 
years, Mrs. Forester kindly consented to marry me. 
Her children are as dear to me as if they were my own.” 

We had now entered the little village of N-. It 

was still flourishing in its native beauty. The green 
banks, with their footpaths, still bordered the carriage 
road, and clusters of dandelions, purple thistles, and 
mallows were scattered by the wayside with their for¬ 
mer profusion. The low schoolhouse with its tall 
chimney stood where I left it. The paths that led 
through the pastures still remained the same. We 
were now near the parsonage house. I asked no 
questions, for I was willing to wait the development 
of circumstances. I was not much surprised when 
we turned up the avenue that led to the old-fashioned 
house. 

“ This is my residence,” said the clergyman, “ and 
I let out the parsonage.” We stopped. The lady 
came to the door to meet us. She seemed to have 
gone along with all things else. Her hair, when I last 
saw her, was glossy and brown; it was now covered 
with a white muslin cap, and was parted upon her 
forehead in a matron-like manner. 

306 



THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGE 

I passed a few days with them, and took leave with 
the novel conclusion, that if there was any happiness 
in this world, it was to be found in a country village, 
where there were no “ improvements,’’ and at the 
house of a country minister. 

307 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


I WAS descending the Ohio, in a steamboat, in 
the month of May, 1830, when the waters were 
rather low for the season. Just before reaching 
Island Number Thirty-Eight, better known as Blen- 
nerhassett’s Island, our boat struck a snag, which broke 
a hole in her bow, and threatened her total destruction. 
The newspapers have made us so familiar with inci¬ 
dents of this kind, that I shall not take up the time of 
the reader in describing the scene. The boat’s com¬ 
pany and crew were of course thrown into consider¬ 
able disorder, but we were near both to the bank of the 
river, and to the island, and no great alarm was felt after 
the first shock. Some of the passengers went in the 
boat to the Ohio side. I preferred being landed on the 
island, and exploring a spot, which the eloquence of 
Wirt and the residence of Blennerhassett have ren¬ 
dered classical. His tasteful mansion had been, some 
years before, wantonly destroyed by lawless vagrants, 
from pure love of mischief; and his grounds had re¬ 
lapsed into the wilderness, out of which he created 
them. After having gratified my curiosity in explor¬ 
ing these vestiges, I pursued my walk, without any 
definite occupation; but indulging, as I strolled along, 
the delightful consciousness of remoteness from the 
world and solitude. At length I perceived a plain, 
substantial house, such as is usually constructed by 
emigrants, bringing with them a little capital. Every- 
308 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


thing about it was plain, orderly, and comfortable in 
its appearance, and formed an agreeable contrast with 
the scene of cultivation returning to chaos, which I 
had just surveyed. I drew nearer the house, and per¬ 
ceived the master of it sitting under the portico, and 
beneath the shade of a noble oak tree. He rose at my 
approach and courteously bade me welcome. An ar¬ 
rival was too unusual an occurrence, in this retreat, 
not to excite immediate attention; and pretty soon the 
other members of the family were collected round us. 
They consisted of the wife of my host, and three or 
four good-looking children. In the lady’s counte¬ 
nance I soon traced a deeper expression than is often 
met with in the faces of those whom we encounter 
in the common walks of life. It was the emigrants 
look; not the beaming, energetic look of the emigrant 
in the morning of life, who goes forth, like the young 
Hercules, to subdue the hardships of the wilderness ; 
but the look of one who has sought and found in a 
new country a refuge from the cares and vicissitudes, 
which have harassed existence in the old settlements. 
It was the look of anxiety relieved, and sorrow com¬ 
forted. The curious student of human nature may see 
a great deal more, in that mingled expression, than in 
the aspect of any of the simpler moods of feeling, 
whether cheerful or sad. 

The usual interchange of courtesies passed. Hav¬ 
ing spoken of my situation, and the probability that 
the boat would require a day or two to be repaired, I 
was kindly urged to be at home, with my new friends. 
This invitation I was well pleased to accept, for I 
had, from the first moment, felt rather an undefined 

309 


APPENDIX 


interest in the family, in which I had accidentally 
become a visitor. After dinner my kind host, whose 
name was Azureton, proposed a walk upon the island, 
through the woods, which he had partly cleared up. 
Our familiarity increased as we strolled along, con¬ 
versing together. Acquaintance runs hastily through 
many degrees in a situation like ours, and it was not 
long before I thought I could venture to ask Mr. 
Azureton to communicate to me those incidents in his 
history which had brought him to the retirement in 
which I found him. After a moment’s pause, and 
looking round as if to be assured that we were not 
overheard, he said, in reply to my request, that he did 
not know but he might venture. 

“ Your appearance and conversation. Sir,” said he, 
‘‘are those of a gentleman. You will perceive, when 
I relate my history to you, that I throw myself, in 
some measure, into your hands; but there is some¬ 
thing in your aspect tells me I may do so with safety.” 

Having assured him that he might rely implicitly on 
my discretion, we seated ourselves on the trunk of a 
tree recently felled, in a position where we enjoyed a 
delightful view of the Ohio, winding away among its 
verdant hills. Rafts of timber from Olean, hundreds 
of miles up the Allegheny, were floating down to New 
Orleans ; even there to be broken up, and distributed 
along the Mexican shore. Keel-boats, flats, arks, and 
steamboats were following each other down the stream; 
and a tide of life seemed pouring forward, toward the 
western wilds, strong enough to animate their stillest 
recesses. Oh, the plans, the hopes, the recollections, 
the expectations; the affections vibrating between what 
310 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


was left behind, and what was looked forward to! 
But this is aside from our subject. Mr. Azureton col¬ 
lected himself a moment, and then began : — 

“ I was established in good business, in the profes¬ 
sion of the law, not far from Boston. The destiny 
of man is contained in the short sentence of Scripture, 
‘ It is not good for man to be alone.’ I felt the truth 
of this doctrine; and in due time I looked round for 
a partner. I was fortunate enough to meet with a 
young lady, whose appearance, connections, charac¬ 
ter, and age were everything I could wish. She had 
received the education, usually obtained at the respect¬ 
able boarding schools, in the part of the country where 
she was born. Her natural capacity was good. In 
early life, she had learned what is usually taught, at 
home by intelligent parents, and at the town schools; 
and at a later period, had completed her education at 
Mr. Plainstyle’s Academy, in Enfield. There was 
nothing ambitious or eccentric in her character. She 
had witnessed, in her mother, the display of those solid 
qualities, which mark the frugal and exemplary house¬ 
wife in New England. She was early taught that it 
was the province of the mistress of a family to look 
well to the ways of her household. My friends, on 
my engagement, congratulated me on the treasure I 
had found ; and prophesied that I should be more than 
commonly happy in the married state. 

“ The temper and manners of my wife were every¬ 
thing I could wish. She was judicious, kind, and firm 
in her deportment toward the domestics (I wish that 
excellent word, ‘ help,’ which contains a whole vol¬ 
ume of social philosophy, had not been blighted by 


APPENDIX 


the ridicule of English travellers, sneering at a state of 
society of which they have not the faintest compre¬ 
hension) ; attentive to the neighbors, affable to her in¬ 
feriors, assiduous in the care of my friends who visited 
the house; in short, good-humored and cheerful. 
Alas, that I had been content with what Providence 
and a virtuous, unpretending education had made her ! 
but, I thank Heaven, we have outlived the sufferings, 
which my own false view of things brought upon us. 
Man is an imperfect being; we never know when to be 
content with our lot; we never are content. Fool that 
I was, I took it into my wise head, that my wife was 
too exclusively domestic in her character. I thought 
that it would improve her to read the new publica¬ 
tions, the leading periodicals, and even the newspapers, 
in which she rarely went beyond the marriages and 
deaths. I wanted her to take a little interest in the 
question of the comparative merits of Locke and Reid, 
of Stewart and Brown. I heard, one evening, a very 
animated discussion of the subject of the classic and 
romantic schools of poetry, between a gentleman, just 
returned from Europe, and an accomplished lady; in 
which I thought the lady had the advantage. I could 
not, on my return home, help expressing to my spouse 
the wish that she would make herself acquainted with 
the question between the classic and romantic schools. 

‘‘ In order that she might not neglect nor delay the 
cultivation of her mind, for want of the requisite means 
of pursuing it, I supplied myself, to the extent of my 
ability, with books. I subscribed for the Edinburgh, 
Quarterly, Westminster, and the North American 
reviews (the American Quarterly, and the Southern, 
312 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


were not then published), besides taking the principal 
magazines of both hemispheres. Whenever I came 
to town, I entered my name at the Athenaeum, for the 
new books from England, and took home with me 
as many of the novelties which I found on the coun¬ 
ters of the booksellers as I could afford. In writing, 
as I did occasionally myself, for the literary journals, 
I used to read my articles to my wife; and I must do 
her the credit to say that she listened to them with in¬ 
variable interest, and frequently expressed the opinion 
that what I had read to her was one of the cleverest 
things she ever heard. This showed me that her judg¬ 
ment was naturally sound. I cultivated the acquaint¬ 
ance of the literary men. I never failed to bring 
home to dinner any of the distinguished literary char¬ 
acters of the day, who visited our village; although, 
to tell the truth, they were not always the liveliest 
company. I was very active in getting up a lyceum ; 
and by way of setting a good example, and promoting 
the great end which I had secretly in view, I delivered 
the introductory lecture myself, and chose for the sub¬ 
ject The Cultivation of Female Intellect. 

“ It will easily be supposed that I did not fail to 
give to the education of my children such a turn as 
would contribute to forward my purpose. The first 
plaything the little creatures had put into their hands 
was a book; and I did not scruple to furnish them 
with some of the less valuable volumes on my shelves, 
to build their baby-houses with. For this purpose I 
let them freely have — but the specification would be 
invidious, and, after all, but a feeble attempt to imi¬ 
tate the inimitable scene in Don Quixote. As soon 

313 


APPENDIX 


as my children were old enough to read, a new story¬ 
book was the reward for every act of obedience ; and 
when, on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, the 
little things, oppressed with the burden of a vacant 
hour, would hang imploringly about me, and ask, 
‘ what should they do ? ’ the answer commonly was, 
‘ Had you not better take a book, my child ?' I made 
a pretty strong push to have our fourth daughter 
named Corinna, in honor of the greatest female au¬ 
thoress of the age; but her mother’s aunt Jerusha 
expressed a wish that her own name might be selected ; 
and of course I yielded. My oldest girl having 
brought me home a very pretty exercise in composi¬ 
tion, in the form of a tale, I gave her on the spot a 
quarter of a dollar, as a reward ; and took down Lem- 
priere’s biographical dictionary, and read her the notice 
of the illustrious Maria Schurmann, ‘ who not only 
excelled in music, painting, sculpture, and engraving, 
but in the knowledge of the Greek, Hebrew, Syriac, 
and Arabic, as well as the modern tongues.’ 

“ I was pleased to observe the success of my efforts. 
My wife gradually assumed the literary tone of the 
house. Breathing, as it were, a bookish atmosphere, 
she became fonder and fonder of reading. She did 
not neglect her household ; but she insensibly sewed 
less and read more. She listened evidently with greater 
satisfaction to the conversation of the literary men 
whom I took every opportunity of bringing to the 
house. She frequently herself threw in a remark on 
the last new publication. Sometimes she adventured 
a verbal criticism on my own compositions, which I 
showed her in manuscript. To encourage her I gen- 
3H 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 

erally adopted her suggestions, — though, to tell the 
truth, I commonly thought it stood as well as it was. 
It was not very long before she produced herself an 
article for one of the annuals. I own it took me by 
surprise, and I was at some loss whether to advise its 
being sent for publication. It did not seem to me 
of a merit sufficiently decided to command brilliant 
success; nor had I as yet, in all my zeal to give my 
wife a literary taste, positively made up my mind that 
I wished her to become a writer. I could not, how¬ 
ever, well discourage her coup d^essai; and I accord¬ 
ingly approved its publication. It was entitled The 
Characteristics of Female Mind; and, after all, made 
a very respectable appearance in print. Several of 
the newspapers awarded it the palm in the Anodyne 
for 1824, the annual in which it appeared. After 
this auspicious beginning, my wife made several simi¬ 
lar attempts, more or less elaborate, in the following 
years, and, upon the whole, with very considerable 
success. Her style gradually formed itself, and she 
attained no small proficiency in the art which forms 
so important a part in the mystery of fine writing,— 
that of expanding a leading thought through several 
pages, in order that the reader may fully comprehend it. 

“ All at once, ‘ a change came o’er the spirit of my ’ 
wife,— a change which baffied my penetration. She 
showed the same love of literature, the same fondness 
for books; and, though she continued the same excel¬ 
lent housewife she had ever been, she was more than 
ever economical of the odd intervals of time. She 
never wasted a moment; proposed no parties of plea¬ 
sure ; sat up late, and rose betimes. There was an 

315 


APPENDIX 


expression of thought in her countenance, beyond its 
wonted serenity, — an expression not only of intellec¬ 
tual action, but of moral purpose. All this seemed the 
stranger to me, because the season passed by, and my 
wife said nothing of a contribution to any of the an¬ 
nuals, which was hitherto about the only thing she had 
attempted, in the way of writing for the press. 

“‘What will Mr. Poppy stalk say, my dear," I ob¬ 
served to her one day, ‘ if you send him nothing for 
this year’s Anodyne ?" 

“ ‘ Do you think he will be greatly disappointed, my 
love?" was her answer. ‘Well, if he is disappointed, 
you shall not be," she continued, with an air of mingled 
archness and conscious purpose, which I could not 
fathom. 

“ It is said that Dr. Burney, the father of Madame 
d"Arblay, to prevent that lady, while still quite young, 
from reading novels, for which he thought she showed 
an undue fondness, locked her up in her chamber. At 
the end of three months his dutiful daughter presented 
him with a copy of Evelina, which she had herself 
written, and procured to be printed, during her con¬ 
finement, It was with something of the good doctor’s 
surprise on that occasion that I received from my 
wife, at the end of about six months after the change 
in her manner which I have noticed, a clever-sized 
manuscript, which she handed me one morning, tri¬ 
umphantly, as a novel that she had been writing ! It 
was entitled the Pleasures of Sentiment. The origi¬ 
nal misgiving with which my wife’s first effort at 
composition affected me returned on me with renewed 
force. I felt the magnitude of the undertaking, the 
316 


MY WIFFS NOVEL 


uncertainty of success. I remembered Madame de 
Stael’s remark, in the preface toDelphine,on the small 
number of writers who had succeeded in the novel j 
which, when executed as it ought to be, I consider 
above a tragedy, and next to an epic poem. Common 
politeness, however, dictated to me to suppress these 
feelings as much as possible. I took the manuscript 
from my wife’s hand, with a look in which I threw 
as much pleasure as I could; and which I own was a 
little checked by her saying, with a flush of eager 
resolution : — 

“ ‘ This very evening, dear husband, I shall begin 
The Forlorn Wanderer; or. The Mysterious Orphan. 
I have already sketched the plan.’ 

“ ‘ Shall we not rather, my dear,’ said I, ‘ devote the 
evening to reading this manuscript ? You know I 
have never seen it before.’ And to this Lucinda — 
for that was her name — readily assented. 

“ On reading the Pleasures of Sentiment, I can 
with truth say that I thought my wife had acquitted 
herself very tolerably. It was as good as I should 
have expected. The story was pretty ingeniously con¬ 
trived, and well told; the language correct; the style 
a very decent imitation of my own; the moral unex¬ 
ceptionable. The great defect in the book, no doubt, 
was its want of interest. Candor obliges me to admit 
that it was rather dull. I am not sure whether I should 
have read it, had it been written by any person but 
my wife. What the particular difficulty about it was I 
could not exactly make out. It seemed to be all first 
chapter. There was no getting interested in it. The 
reader went on, page after page, expecting to find 

317 


APPENDIX 


something that would pique his curiosity; but there 
was nothing that had that effect. It was a kind of 
mental treadmill, always stepping up, and even getting 
on in the story, but never rising into interest. You 
felt the disappointment which you do in going down¬ 
stairs in the dark ; when, at the bottom of the staircase, 
you make a motion for another step, where there is no 
other. Still there seemed nothing in the world to ob¬ 
ject to the novel; and I saw, by numerous indications, 
that my wife had determined to have it printed. Her 
views were not confined even to the applause she ex¬ 
pected to receive for it. She asked me significantly, 
one day, whether I knew how many thousand pounds 
Sir Walter Scott received for one of the Waverley 
Novels. 

“Three thousand, I replied, had been stated to be 
the amount. 

“ ‘ Three thousand pounds it was, my dear,’ she pur¬ 
sued ; ‘ fifteen thousand dollars, I believe, in our money. 
If the Pleasures of Sentiment is only one tenth as 
successful,— and that, I think,’ said she, ‘ is not a very 
extravagant calculation, — we may promise ourselves 
fifteen hundred dollars from your wife’s novel. No 
bad thing that, dear husband, is it ? ’ 

“A negotiation was soon entered into with Messrs 
Frisket & Narrowform, respectable publishers at Bos¬ 
ton, to print my wife’s novel. The terms of the contract 
were such as we could not complain of, as they were 
designed to secure to us the entire profits of the work. 
Messrs. Frisket & Narrowform were to do the print¬ 
ing at the usual prices ; sell the books at a fair com¬ 
mission ; and all the profits were to be ours. Nothing 

318 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


was said of making up any deficiency, should the sales 
not cover the expense; for, to tell the truth, that cer¬ 
tainly never crossed my wife’s imagination, nor, I must 
own, mine. We neither of us were very conversant 
with the business of book-making, and our thoughts 
ran rather too much on Sir Walter’s three thousand 
pounds. 

“ It would take too long to describe the state of my 
wife’s mind, and, I may as well confess it, of her hus¬ 
band’s too, during the progress of the publication. 
The proof sheets were sent us by Frisket & Nar- 
rowform, for I was determined the work should be 
correct. I ordered it done on a seven-dollar paper, and 
an English type, leaded, in order to make a fair, legi¬ 
ble page, and such as could be read without pain by 
aged people. In this way the work was swelled to two 
sizable volumes. We hesitated as to the number 
which should be struck off. My wife named five 
thousand copies, understanding that ten thousand cop¬ 
ies of Ivanhoe had been sold the first day. But as 
Messrs. Frisket & Narrowform stipulated for an ad¬ 
vance, to pay for the seven-dollar paper, and the sum 
required for this purpose was not small, we concluded 
to limit the first edition to twelve hundred. I recon¬ 
ciled my wife to this arrangement, by reminding her 
that we could make the second edition as large as we 
pleased, as there would be the profits of the first to go 
on with. 

“At length, on the first of November, 1825, my 
wife’s novel appeared. The newspapers of the day 
announced the publication of the ‘ Pleasures of Senti¬ 
ment, a novel, in two volumes, by Mrs. Lucinda 

319 


APPENDIX 


Azureton.’ A couple of dozen copies were ordered 
home, handsomely bound, as presents, one of which 
was given to each member of the family, old and young; 
for my wife was resolved to make a holiday of it, and 
thought it hard if each of her children could not have 
a copy of her first novel. My mind, I own, was not 
fully at ease about this expression, I knew The 

Mysterious Orphan was in progress; and Frisket & 
Narrowform had written me rather an obscure letter, 
speaking of the slowness with which sales of all books 
were effected, and dropping a hint that they should 
expect my note for the expenses of printing the 
Pleasures of Sentiment, a sum but little short of fif¬ 
teen hundred dollars. 

“ After the bustle produced in the family by this 
occurrence was a little over, we began to bestow some 
attention on the reception the novel met with in the 
world. I took the Wachusett Universal Intelligen¬ 
cer, which was the newspaper nearest our residence, 
but saw nothing in its columns relative to my wife’s 
novel. ‘ These country papers,’ my wife exclaimed, 
‘ really know nothing of what is going on in the world! 
Do, my dear, subscribe for the Boston Repository of 
Politics, Commerce, Literature, and the Fine Arts, that 
we may emerge a little into the light.’ I accordingly 
remitted eight dollars by mail for the Repository, for 
my wife was not content with anything less than the 
daily paper. ‘ Now,’ said she, ‘ we shall know what 
they say in town of the Pleasures of Sentiment.’ Day 
after day the Repository came, but no notice of the 
novel. ‘ It is provoking,’ cried my wife, at the end 
of the week, ‘ to see how these Boston editors are en- 
320 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 

grossed with politics, railroads, foreign news, and ad¬ 
vertisements ! Thank Heaven, the Reviews are devoted 
to literature.’ 

“This consideration reconciled us to wait till the 
end of the quarter. Meantime a copy of the novel 
was sent to the editors of each of the Reviews. The 
first of January came, and my wife sent a man in the 
sleigh to town, to get the North American. The man 
froze his face in a northeast storm, and nearly perished 
in a snowdrift; but we got the book a fortnight be¬ 
fore it would have reached us. My wife went out into 
the kitchen, and took it herself from Thomas, and ran 
over the table of contents. There was no review of 
the Pleasures of Sentiment. There was an undis¬ 
guised air of discontent in the tone with which she 
hummed over the list of articles,— Hebrew Poetry, 
Origin of the French Language, American System, 
Hieroglyphics. ‘I must say, husband,’ she exclaimed, 
‘ I think the North American is rather falling off. 
However,’ added she, ‘there is the American Quarterly 
just started, quite able to take its place j do, husband, 
subscribe for the Quarterly.’ I accordingly wrote on 
and ordered the Quarterly. In about six weeks the 
newspapers contained a notice, by anticipation, of the 
contents of the forthcoming number of the American 
Quarterly, and there was nothing on the Pleasures of 
Sentiment in the catalogue. ‘ Husband,’ said my wife 
to me, as she threw the paper down, ‘ you did not sub¬ 
scribe for the Quarterly the other day, did you ? It 
is hardly worth while, I think. These reviewers 
really seem to think the world cares for nothing but 
voyages and travels, political economy and finance.’ 
321 


APPENDIX 


“ In a word, for some cause or other, not the least 
notice was taken of my wife’s novel in any of the 
leading periodicals of the day, and we became at last 
weary of looking forward with expectation. At the 
end of four months Messrs. Frisket & Narrowform 
wrote to me, informing me that they had sold but 
three copies of the work, and that they could not wait 
any longer for the large sum they had expended in the 
publication, which, agreeably to the contract, they re¬ 
quired me to reimburse them. I had to sell three shares 
in the Grand Crash Manufacturing Company to meet 
this demand. The shares were seven hundred dollars 
at par. I had bought in at a moment of great activity 
in manufactures, and had got my shares of a friend, as 
a great favor, at a thousand dollars apiece. The stock 
happened to be down when I was obliged to sell, and 
I was glad to get five hundred dollars apiece for what 
had cost me a thousand. The publication of my wife’s 
novel, accordingly, stood me in about three thousand 
dollars. 

“ It is a curious thing how much our opinion even 
of ourselves depends on the opinions of others of us. 
I suppose, when my wife first finished her novel, she 
felt herself but little, if anything, inferior to Scott 
or Cooper, Edgeworth or Sedgwick. But when she 
noticed the steady silence of the newspapers, the maga¬ 
zines, and the reviews, her opinion of the merits of 
her book was shaken. The tidings that but three 
copies had been sold in four months confirmed the 
growing doubt of its merit; and when she learned that 
instead of the fifteen hundred dollars which we had 
promised ourselves, it bid fair to cause us a loss of 
322 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


twice that magnitude, and that I had been obliged to 
sell my shares in the Grand Crash Manufacturing 
Company to meet the publishers’ demand, her doubts 
changed to conviction, and her feelings for her own 
novel, from those of the fondest partiality, turned into 
a mingled sentiment of contempt and hatred. She 
could not bear to hear it named. 

“ A short time after I had paid the bill of Fris- 
ket & Narrowform, and while my wife’s mind was 
thus embittered toward her first intellectual offspring, 
she took up the newspaper, and was casting her eye 
over the advertisement of one of the book auctions ; 
and there, amidst a mass of the most melancholy trash 
ever swept from the shelves of a bookseller retiring 
from trade, was a copy of the Pleasures of Sentiment; 
one of the three, no doubt, which had been bought of 
the booksellers, and was already sent to auction. This 
incident affected her very unpleasantly. 

“ Determined, however, not to yield too readily 
to what might, after all, be a caprice of the public 
taste, I wrote to Frisket & Narrowform, without the 
knowledge of my wife, directing them to send the 
books, on commission, to the booksellers in New 
England, in quantities proportioned to the size of the 
towns where they were established. In this way 
they were scattered throughout the country, and I flat¬ 
tered myself the public attention would thereby be 
awakened to them. A week or two after this ma¬ 
noeuvre, I received the account of Frisket & Narrow- 
form for the expense of forwarding the various boxes 
and parcels containing the work ; the booksellers in 
the interior having required that it should be trans- 

323 


APPENDIX 


mitted to them free of expense. This bill amounted 
to eighty-three dollars. It accidentally fell under my 
wife’s eye ; she required an explanation of it, and I 
was obliged to give her one. I told her what I had 
done. 

“This incident quite overturned the little equa¬ 
nimity with which my wife regarded her novel. She 
had made up her own mind that it was worthless; 
that it did not merit notice; that it deserved the ob¬ 
scurity to which it had sunk. In this view the silence 
of the papers and reviews was rather grateful to her. 
It was less grating than their faint praise or severe 
censure. She had not asked herself what was to be¬ 
come of the copies of the work on hand ; and, in fact, 
had studiously averted her thoughts from all consid¬ 
eration of the subject. When she found, then, that 
by my well-meant officiousness it had been scattered 
through the country; that Mrs. Azureton’s Pleasures 
of Sentiment was advertising in all the newspapers of 
New England, from the Ousatonic Emporium to the 
Passamaquoddy Central Enquirer, the cup of her af¬ 
fliction was full to overflowing, and she burst into tears. 
Her annoyance was not a little increased by reflecting 
that I had paid eighty-three dollars, in addition to my 
three thousand, for this judicious operation. 

“At the time of ordering the distribution of the 
work in the manner mentioned, Frisket & Narrow- 
form wrote me that one of the country traders had 
offered to purchase twenty-five copies outright, at a re¬ 
duced price; and that they themselves could also dis¬ 
pose of fifty copies in town, if I could let them go 
quite cheap. I asked no questions about the price, but 

324 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


ordered them sold for the most they would bring. 
The country bookseller, as I afterwards learned, al¬ 
lowed four cents a volume for his twenty-five sets, 
and the fifty copies sold in town brought three dollars 
for the lot. These two sales, yielding but five dollars 
in the whole, were a source of great mischief to us. 
I had reason to rue the day when I gave my consent 
to them. 

“ The country trader intended, it seems, to send 
them round the villages in Massachusetts by a peddler. 
Late in a warm afternoon of July, we saw a wayworn 
chapman, with a large box held by straps over his shoul¬ 
ders, staggering towards our door. He was evidently 
oppressed with the heat of the day and the burden he 
was carrying. He asked permission to deposit his 
load on the doorstep, which was freely granted him, and 
a cup of beer was added, unasked, for his refreshment. 
The heart of the peddler warmed at this kind treat¬ 
ment ; and as my wife approached him, herself, with 
the foaming glass in her hand, he told her that though 
he could not reward her with silver or gold, he would 
give her a nice new book from his box. My wife 
replied that ‘ he was welcome to the beer; and that 
she could not think of robbing him of his book, but 
perhaps she would buy one.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Nay, no robbery,’ rejoined the peddler; ‘ but 
take it in welcome, and thank you to boot, for lighten¬ 
ing my burden. It costs but a shilling, and if Mr. 
ScatterstufF, who employs me, is not satisfied, I will 
pay him for it myself, if it is only to say that I have 
sold one copy. Here I have been dragging the box 
about, nine whole days in July, up and down the Con- 

325 


APPENDIX 


necticut River, and not one copy have I been able to 
get rid of. Here, my lady,’ said he, ‘ take a copy, and 
much good may it do you.’ 

“ The family had by this time collected around the 
peddler and his chest; we were all straining forward 
to behold its contents. He raised the cover : the chest 
was filled with the Pleasures of Sentiment! That 
moment, I must confess, was one of the most awk¬ 
ward in my life. But the mortifications to which 
this unfortunate book was destined to reduce us were 
not yet at an end. 

“ My oldest boy had reached the age of eleven 
years. I am myself in favor of domestic education, 
and would prefer that every night my little flock 
should be safely folded beneath the paternal roof. 
There are, however, unquestionable advantages inci¬ 
dent to a removal from home ; and the disposition of 
Gustavus (that was his name) seemed to me such as 
would derive benefit from the rough and tumble of an 
academy, among boys of his own age. It was accord¬ 
ingly decided in family council that he should be sent 
to the academy at Templeton to prepare for college. 
Neighbor Edgebone, the butcher, was commissioned 
to purchase a trunk in the city, for his clothes and 
books, and all preparations were made for his depar¬ 
ture. My wife, as her parting injunction, cautioned 
him against reading novels, a miserable, unprofitable 
sort of books. At length the eve of his departure ar¬ 
rived, and Mrs. Azureton engaged herself in the final 
preparations for his journey. For this purpose she 
left the parlor to pack his trunk, in season for the 
morning stage. As his stock of clothes and books 
326 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


was small, this was a task soon to be performed ; but 
my wife did not come back to the parlor. After 
waiting much longer than was necessary for the per¬ 
formance of this duty, my anxiety was awakened, and 
I could not avoid going to inquire into the cause of 
her prolonged absence. I hastened to the chamber 
where I supposed her to be engaged in packing the 
trunk, and beheld her, to my great alarm and astonish¬ 
ment, stretched senseless on the floor in front of the 
open trunk. I flew to her relief, equally shocked at 
the situation in which I found her, and at a loss to 
conceive the cause. I stooped to raise her, and in so 
doing cast my eyes accidentally upon the inside of the 
open trunk. The mystery was explained; the cause 
of my wife’s fainting was solved. The trunk-maker 
had lined the trunk with the sheets of the Pleasures 
of Sentiment; and was, in fact, the purchaser of the 
fifty copies which had been sold in a lot, — sold to a 
trunk-maker for the lining of his trunks! 

“ It was several days before my wife recovered her 
senses. She passed the time in a state intermediate be¬ 
tween lethargy and delirium. She wandered in mind, 
and talked incoherently. She spoke of the trunk in 
which the Italian bride had accidentally shut herself 
on her bridal night, and was not found till years after 
her mysterious disappearance. The trunk in The Mys¬ 
teries of Udolpho seemed to be in her mind. She was 
pursued with the idea of trunks and linings; and at 
times would repeat, ‘ The Pleasures — ah no ! the 
Pains of Sentiment ! ’ At length she recovered the 
exercise of her understanding, and talked calmly and 
rationally of the causes of her distress. She made no 

327 


APPENDIX 


effort to palliate the cause nor the degree of her mor¬ 
tification. She traced it to its true and only source, 
the failure of the book, and declared that if every 
copy of it could be annihilated she could live in resig¬ 
nation and die in peace. But if her nerves were much 
longer to be exposed to these shocks, she felt an un¬ 
doubted persuasion that her days were numbered. Nor 
did the thought alarm her, for she had rather die at 
once than live at the mercy of the peddlers and trunk- 
makers. 

“ I loved my wife tenderly ; and on this occasion 
I felt the greater sympathy in her sufferings, for I re¬ 
garded myself as, in no small degree, their uninten¬ 
tional cause. I had perseveringly formed her to the 
taste, in the gratification of which she was placed in 
her present distressing situation. I determined, ac¬ 
cordingly, to leave no stone unturned for her relief. 
She had expressed her earnest conviction that nothing 
but the utter suppression of her work would give her 
peace; and, thinking no sacrifice too great to effect 
this object, I determined to set about it. I felt the 
rather encouraged in this purpose, as the little demand 
there appeared to be for my wife’s novel led me to 
suppose the copies could all be bought up for a mod¬ 
erate sum. 

‘‘ I accordingly went to work in good earnest. I 
determined to take a journey myself through the prin¬ 
cipal towns in New England; and where it was not 
convenient to go in person, I wrote to such friends as 
I could trust, to aid me in an operation of this delicate 
character. It will easily be understood that, as well 
from tenderness to my wife’s feelings as my own, I 
328 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 


proceeded about the business with the greatest caution 
and prudence. My object was to buy up all the 
copies of the Pleasures of Sentiment and destroy 
them; but I wished, on every ground, that it should 
not be known that I was thus occupied. I commenced 
my operations with a bookseller who had but three 
copies on hand. With the keen eye of the trade, he 
perceived that I had some particular motive and was 
very desirous of possessing the book. I inquired the 
price. It was a dollar per volume. ‘Was not that 
dear ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Dear! ’ he exclaimed. ‘ Why, sir, look at the type; 
the paper seven dollars a ream, I have not a doubt. 
Besides, sir, it is a production of Mrs. Azureton, a 
lady of the highest literary eminence. It is her first 
work, but it is reported that she has another in prepara¬ 
tion. You will find it for your convenience to take 
them as they come out.’ 

“ I was ready to execrate the man’s fluency; but I 
was too well able to bear witness to the truth of his 
statement relative to the cost of the work, and I own 
I was flattered by his respectful allusion to my wife’s 
name. I took the three copies, on his abating two 
and a half per cent, for cash payment. 

“ In this way I proceeded through the towns, while 
my friends and agents in all quarters, with the great¬ 
est secrecy and caution, were doing the same. We 
bought up the books wherever we found them. We 
were compelled, from the first, almost always to pay 
the full retail price; but I comforted myself that the 
edition was small, and that there would before long be 
an end of it. I had a few more shares in the Grand 

329 


APPENDIX 


Crash Manufacturing Company, and was quite will¬ 
ing to devote them to effecting an object on which my 
wife’s peace of mind and even life seemed to depend. 
I was a little vexed, I must own, at what, however, 
was a natural consequence of the mode in which I 
conducted the operation. The booksellers, finding 
themselves, and hearing from all quarters, that there 
was a sudden but general and steady demand for the 
Pleasures of Sentiment, raised the price, as by uni¬ 
versal consent, to a dollar and a half, and at length two 
dollars a volume. This, of course, materially in¬ 
creased the expense of the suppression, and obliged 
me besides to sell my shares in the Plum Island and 
Squam Navigation Company. This was a stock 
which, however promising, was difficult to turn into 
cash at par. In fact, I sold it at eighty-seven per cent, 
discount, realizing but about thirteen dollars on a hun¬ 
dred of my stock. As, however, it had never given 
a dividend, and as assessments were pretty frequently 
called for, I did not much regret to part with it. 

“At length I succeeded in purchasing up the edi¬ 
tion. With the exception of a few straggling copies 
I got them all into my possession. As it was my 
wife’s wish that they should be destroyed, I would 
gladly have turned them to some economical account, 
and used them as fuel in the family; thus imitating 
the example of Omar, who heated the baths of his 
Saracen host for six months with the parchments of 
the Alexandrian Library. I was desirous, however, 
of avoiding the publicity of any such proceeding, 
which could not but be known to my children, do¬ 
mestics, and neighbors, besides harassing my wife’s 

330 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 

feelings. I accordingly had them stowed away in the 
loft of a ruinous outhouse, which stood isolated on 
my farm, resolving to watch the opportunity, when 
the wind blew in a direction opposite from the dwell¬ 
ing-house, and privately set fire to it myself. But it 
was in the book of fate that these precautions should 
be unavailing. 

“ Scarcely had I begun to rest from the labor of 
collecting the books, when I learned, to my conster¬ 
nation, that two booksellers, at first without knowing 
each other’s project, but afterwards in rivalry, were 
actually employed in striking off two new editions of 
the Pleasures of Sentiment. They had witnessed a 
sudden and rapid demand for the work. It had been 
in request everywhere. The town and country seemed 
equally eager of it. Their own copies had been sold ; 
the neighboring booksellers had witnessed the like 
surprising demand ; not a copy was to be had ; the 
price had risen; the edition was exhausted. The 
measures which I had taken to prevent my agency in 
the suppression from being traced misled the book¬ 
sellers as to the cause of the rapid demand. They 
ascribed it to the popularity of the work, which went 
oflF more rapidly than anything since the last Waverley 
Novel. I had neglected to take out a copyright. I 
was not conversant with publishing books myself, and 
Frisket & Narrowform, doubtless foreseeing the re¬ 
ception the book was likely to meet, did not think it 
worth while to advise this precaution against a re¬ 
print. It was therefore out of my power to interfere 
and stop the booksellers, who were preparing again 
to inundate New England with my wife’s ill-starred 

331 


APPENDIX 


novel. What were my feelings on reading on one 
and the same day, in the Naushaun General Advertiser 
and the Baker’s Island Hemisphere, that new and re¬ 
vised editions were preparing of ‘ that admired and 
popular novel, the Pleasures of Sentiment, by Mrs. 
Azureton.’ It was stated by one of these merciless 
creatures, that a large impression of the first edition 
had been taken off with unprecedented rapidity; and 
by the other, that it was understood to be the first of 
a series of productions, with which the fair and ac¬ 
complished authoress intended to favor the American 
public. 

“ The conjuncture was full of embarrassment and 
difficulty. The idea of allowing the editions to pro¬ 
ceed was a very painful one. I well knew that it 
would have no other effect than to send my wife’s 
novel into every auction room, peddler’s cart, trunk- 
maker’s shop, and pastry cook’s kitchen in New Eng¬ 
land. It would become dangerous for us to buy a 
pound of tea, for fear it should come home wrapped up 
in the sheets of this unlucky work; and the sight of a 
boy’s kite would carry terror to us, when we thought 
of the materials out of which it would in great likeli¬ 
hood be constructed. In the bitterness of my spirit 
I began a lecture, for the next Lyceum, in which I 
intended to investigate the truth of the tradition that 
Dr. Faustus was helped to the invention of the art of 
printing by the devil. Something, however, was to be 
done; and I finally concluded that there was no pos¬ 
sibility of averting the impending calamity except by 
going to the booksellers and frankly stating to them 
the manner in which the first edition had been taken 

332 


MY WIFFS NOVEL 

up. I took with me an affidavit of Frisket & Nar- 
rowform, attesting the fact that three copies only had 
been sold in the regular course of trade, and seventy- 
five others disposed of as above mentioned. Fortified 
with this document, I called upon the booksellers, 
frankly made known to them the facts of the case, 
and urged the consequent inexpediency of their pro¬ 
ceeding with their rival editions of a novel of which 
it was not possible that a single copy would sell. 
They were at first struck with the reasonableness of 
my representation; but, so merciless a thing is self- 
interest, it pretty soon occurred to these cruel men 
that the same motives which had prompted me to 
suppress one edition would lead me to buy up an¬ 
other ; in short, that they had me in their power. 
They immediately began to hesitate, demur, to talk of 
their outlay. One had purchased a new font of type; 
another, seeing the beauty of the paper on which the 
first edition was printed (confound it), had ordered 
from Mr. Flimsyrag a seven-dollar paper expressly for 
the work; and, in short, their names had gone before 
the world pledged to the publication, and they scarce 
knew how to recede. At the same time, however, 
they said they were willing to do everything that was 
right and proper. 

“I felt my case to be really a hard one. I was 
struggling more zealously to prevent my wife’s book 
from being printed than ever the most self-satisfied 
author did to get a production before the public, and 
the more I exerted myself, the farther I seemed from 
the point. The emergency, however, was not to be 
trifled with. I knew well the publication of another 
333 


APPENDIX 


edition of her novel would be the death of my wife. 
I had three shares left in the Grand Crash Manu¬ 
facturing Company, and I asked the hard-hearted 
wretches what they would take not to go on. After 
humming and hawing a reasonable time, they finally 
agreed to take five hundred dollars each, and give up 
the enterprise. I knew it was more money than the 
dogs ever made in any year of their business; but I 
was glad to get out of their clutches, and closed the 
bargain. Grand Crash stock was rather lower than 
before; and my three shares brought me altogether 
just a thousand dollars. I divided it between them, 
and went off; not without being obliged to promise 
them (and I am not clear that they were not quizzing 
me, as they exacted my word to that effect), that if 
my wife published another novel, they should have 
the job. To make sure of their abandoning the un¬ 
dertaking, I obliged them to issue a joint notice in 
the newspapers, that ‘they had relinquished the pro¬ 
ject of their new editions of the Pleasures of Senti¬ 
ment.’ 

“ This very notice, by which I thought to clinch 
the nail on their bargain, was but the occasion of driv¬ 
ing me into new and unexpected trouble. I returned 
home, and having, as I thought, destroyed the hydra, 
I communicated the transaction, in all its stages, to 
my wife. She was gratified at my attention and zeal, 
but listened with a sort of incredulous melancholy, 
looking as if she feared that the malice of Fortune was 
not yet appeased. Nor did the event disappoint her 
forebodings. A few weeks after my return, on open¬ 
ing the newspaper, I was struck with horror at the 
334 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 

following advertisement, inserted in the most con¬ 
spicuous manner, and ordered for epis i year: — 

NEW AND UNIFORM EDITION OF THE AMERICAN 
FEMALE NOVELISTS 

Messrs. Silvertype, Vellumpage, Flauntwell, Fair- 
trash & Brown have the honor to announce to the 
friends of American literature in general, and more 
particularly to the admirers of female excellence, that 
they have made arrangements for the publication of a 
new uniform edition, in a continuous series, of the 
productions of the American Female Novelists. The 
work will be printed on a first-rate paper, with a new 
type cast expressly for this publication. It will be 
illustrated with engravings made for the purpose, by 
our most eminent artists. The series will commence 
with that highly popular work, the Pleasures of Sen¬ 
timent, by Mrs. Lucinda Azureton. The rapidity 
with which the first edition of this favorite produc¬ 
tion has been exhausted, and the simultaneous annun¬ 
ciation of rival editions by two distinguished book¬ 
sellers, who, from the difficulty of reconciling their 
conflicting claims, appear to have relinquished the en¬ 
terprise, have decided Messrs. Silvertype, Vellumpage, 
Flauntwell, Fairtrash & Brown to select this work 
for the first of their series. Not doubting its popu¬ 
larity, they have resolved to print a very large edition, 
and shall consequently have it in their power to put it 
at a price which will enable every lover of female 
intellect to possess himself of this invaluable work. 
Messrs. S., V., F., F. & B. solicit the early orders 
of their friends and the trade. 

335 


APPENDIX 


Note. The Pleasures of Sentiment will be pre¬ 
ceded by a biographical account of the fair authoress, 
accompanied with a critical essay on her genius and 
style. This portion of the enterprise will be con¬ 
ducted by Dr. Worrywell, who will immediately pro¬ 
ceed to the residence of Mrs. Azureton, to ascertain 
from authentic sources the leading incidents of her 
life, and the circumstances connected with the origin 
and progress of her literary career. Messrs. Silver- 
type, Vellumpage, Flauntwell, Fairtrash & Brown feel 
assured that the result of his inquiries will present 
those encouragements and cheering examples to the 
ingenious fair of our country, which will prompt them 
in numbers to enter the noble career which has con¬ 
ducted the fair authoress of the Pleasures of Senti¬ 
ment to the enviable reputation which she now en- 
joys. 

“ Such was this terrific advertisement; and scarcely 
had I finished reading it when the mail stagecoach 
stopped at the door. A considerable bustle immedi¬ 
ately arose. A short, corpulent gentleman, dressed in 
black, jumped out of the stage, and began, with great 
volubility, to give his orders about the baggage. Two 
large travelling trunks, a box apparently containing a 
portable desk, a cloak bag, ivory-headed cane, um¬ 
brella, hat case, a large shaggy dog, and a fiddle case 
were successively unladen from the vehicle, which im¬ 
mediately drove off, leaving this fearful deposit at my 
door. The bustling man in black approached, holding 
his card in his hand, which he thrust, with a self-sat- 

336 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 

isfied air, into mine, and which announced him to be 
Dr. Allbore W^orrywell. 

“ ‘ The papers, I fancy, sir,’ said he, with a brazen 
self-complacency, ‘ will have prepared you for this 
visit and made known to you my errand. You see, 
from my baggage, that I have come resolved to take 
ample time to do full justice to the noble theme 
which has been confided to me by Messrs. Silvertype, 
Vellumpage, Flauntwell, Fairtrash & Brown. Sir, 
your situation here is delightful, — fine prospect, sir, 
in the distance; woods in the background; spacious 
lawn; salubrious air; really, Mr. Azureton, I should 
not be sorry to make a season’s job of it. But, sure 
enough,’ continued the wretch, spying my man Arthur 
at a distance, ‘ sure enough, John,’ said he to Arthur, 
‘ you are coming to take in my little baggage. I had 
forgot my things were, all this time, in the road. Mr. 
Azureton, tell John what room to take my trunk to.’ 

“ The volubility, the attic impertinence, the unex¬ 
ampled audacity of the creature really petrified me. 
My faculties were for a moment suspended; and, 
when Reason resumed her seat, the first thought that 
struck me was the effect which the Visigoth’s presence, 
or his avowed errand, would have on Mrs. Azureton’s 
nerves. I was casting about in my mind how I could 
get him off, or get my wife and myself out of his 
reach, when a shriek from the room where I had left 
her recalled me to myself. The newspaper, the fatal 
advertisement which it contained ! My wife, while I 
was at the door, had taken it up; her eye had caught 
the withering proposals, and, uttering one piercing 

3S7 


APPENDIX 


shriek, she swooned. I hastened into the house; the 
proper restoratives were applied, but she returned to 
herself only to fall into paroxysms of agitation and 
terror. For several days she continued in this state, 
the only alleviation of which was that, by confining 
her to her chamber, it enabled me to keep Dr. Worry- 
well away from her. I dropped several hints to him 
that, in the present state of Mrs. Azureton^s health, it 
was inconvenient to entertain a visitor. The remorse¬ 
less pedant affected to think I spoke only out of re¬ 
luctance to detain him at my house at the sacrifice of 
his time; and he asseverated that, ‘ rather than en¬ 
danger Mrs. Azureton's health by calling upon her 
prematurely for the mental effort, which he hoped 
eventually she would condescend to make, for the pur¬ 
pose of aiding him in his pleasing task, he would 
rather make an entire vacation of it at my charming 
retreat j or, even,’ added he, ‘ commence the execu¬ 
tion of another literary project which I have in hand, 
— the secret history of the Celestial Empire, compre¬ 
hending personal anecdotes of the sovereigns of China, 
from the Emperor Fo-hi to the present moment, a 
a period of ten thousand years, in forty-five volumes, 
folio.’ 

“ Seeing that there was no hope of getting rid of 
my tormentor, and well aware that the first flash upon 
my wife’s mind of his name and errand would be her 
instant death; persuaded, too, that even could I shake 
off this incubus, some other disaster connected with 
our standing trial would befall us, I made up my mind 
to emigrate to the Western Country. My wife, sunk 
into a state of stupor and inaction, was seldom in a 

338 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 

condition to converse upon business. I acquainted 
her privately with my purpose. I spoke of her health 
as the motive, with a view to change of air, and al¬ 
luded to the opening afforded the rising generation in 
the Western Country as an inducement to take our 
children to that region. She languidly assented. I 
do not know whether she penetrated the real reasons 
that influenced me. I succeeded in disposing of my 
house, furniture, and land (at a great sacrifice, I con¬ 
fess), to a friend, who agreed to take them olF my 
hands. I observed the profoundest secrecy, for I 
feared that if Dr. Worry well got wind of my project 
he would fasten himself on me for the journey. I 
gradually packed up, and sent off to Providence the 
few articles which I proposed to take with me. When 
I had made all my preparations, I took my wife and 
children with me to town, without giving the Doctor 
any reason to suspect that we proposed anything more 
than a day’s visit. I left him delving into the scan¬ 
dalous chronicle of the ninety-ninth dynasty of the 
Ante-Tartarian Emperors of China. I had already 
made arrangements for disposing of my carriage in 
Boston, and had nothing to do but to take the stage 
to Providence, and thence, by the usual route, to the 
banks of the Ohio. Our journey was uncommonly 
prosperous : the steamboat, in which we took passage 
in the Sound, was run afoul of and sunk, but we es¬ 
caped with our lives and baggage; and I had the good 
fortune to get two of my children down from the roof 
of a canal boat near Lockport, just as we grazed 
under a bridge, leaving an unlucky Frenchman, who 
did not understand the cry, behind us in the canal. 

339 


APPENDIX 


On our way from Buffalo to Cleveland, on an alarm 
of fire, a few persons jumped into the lake, on hear¬ 
ing the cry of Gunpowder aboard! but before I could 
get up the cabin stairs, I was assured by the captain 
that the casks contained nothing but cut nails. This 
prevented my jumping overboard, but on reaching 
Cleveland I found they were filled with gunpowder 
nevertheless. However, the fire was extinguished in 
season, which I may truly call fortunate. 

‘‘ On landing at Cleveland, one of the first persons 
I saw was the editor of the Cuyahoga Ararat; or. 
Indiscriminate Investigator. He was an emigrant 
from the North, an old neighbor and acquaintance of 
mine. He had come down to the landing to collect 
news from the steamboat. Never shall I forget the 
terror with which the sight of him at a distance in¬ 
spired me. I saw already, in my mind’s eye, in the 
next number of the Ararat, the annunciation of my 
poor wife’s arrival, as the authoress of the Pleasures 
of Sentiment. Happily, however. Lowercase (that 
was his name) did not recognize me. I saw by this 
indication that time and care must have dealt roughly 
upon me. I was in truth sadly changed. Lowercase, 
as he passed me, looked hardly at me ; but I put on 
a most unknowing air, and finally escaped him. 

“ After this I began to breathe the free air of the 
West. I crossed the State of Ohio, without further 
molestation from editors, publishers, biographers, and 
advertisements, My wife gradually recovered her 
health and spirits. I confess that I felt no little satis¬ 
faction in hearing, by letter, from the friend who had 
purchased my house, of the astonishment and vexation 

340 


MY WIFE’S NOVEL 

of Dr. Worrywell, on finding that I did not return. 
I had taken my measures so well, that my entire estab¬ 
lishment was broken up and brought to a close the 
day on which I left the house. Like a faithful captain 
of a shipwrecked vessel, I was the last to leave it; 
and yet Dr. Worrywell did not suspect what was 
going on. The poor man was bewildered enough, 
when the hour of the evening repast came (the eating 
hours were all pretty closely watched by the Doctor), 
and no family nor preparation for supper appeared. A 
charitable cup of tea at a neighbor’s carried him through 
the evening ; and early the next morning my friend 
who had purchased the house arrived and took posses¬ 
sion. Dr. Worrywell, as soon as he learned from this 
gentleman the present state of things, inquired whether 
he or his lady had appeared before the world as an 
author, and volunteered his services for a biography of 
one or both of them. But there was a shade of sig¬ 
nificance in the manner with which my friend flourished 
his horsewhip, and the Doctor thought it prudent to 
send word to the tavern for the stage to call and take 
him up. The report which he carried back to Messrs. 
Silvertype, Vellumpage, Flauntwell, Fairtrash & 
Brown probably induced those gentlemen to make 
such farther inquiries into the popularity of the Plea¬ 
sures of Sentiment as led them, as far as that work 
was concerned, to abandon their project. 

“ Having reached the banks of the beautiful river^ I 
took my passage on board a boat which was descend¬ 
ing, resolved to be guided by my eye and my taste in 
selecting a secluded spot upon its shores, or on one of 
its islands, for the place of my retreat. Accident led 

341 


APPENDIX 


me to this quiet residence, where we have passed a 
couple of years in retirement, tranquillity, and peace. 
My wife is fast recovering her cheerfulness, and 
divides with me the care of educating our children. 
The literary taste, which I took injudicious pains to 
strengthen in her, chastened of that extravagance to 
which I urged it, now performs its appropriate office, 
and furnishes resources for the amusement of herself 
and family. Books now entertain and instruct, with¬ 
out absorbing and engrossing us. Literature is the 
sauce, and not the food, of our mental system. The 
great active duties of life are our first care ; and we 
read for relaxation, in the intervals of their perform¬ 
ance. Thus occupied, contentment presides in our 
little circle ; and so kindly has Time discharged his 
office as the great consoler, that we are able now to 
allude, without embarrassment or pain, to My Wife’s 
Novel.” 


342 


THE BALD EAGLE 


“ I ’ll have you chronicled, and chronicled, and cut and chronicled, and 
sung in aU-to-be-praised sonnets, and grav’d in new brave ballads, that all 
tongues shall trotile you in Saecula Saeculorum.” — Old Comedy. 

I N one of the little villages sprinkled along the 
delicious valley of the Connecticut, there stood, 
not many years ago, a little tavern called the 
Bald Eagle. It was an old-fashioned building with a 
small antique portico in front, where, of a lazy sum¬ 
mer afternoon, the wise men of the village assembled 
to read newspapers, talk politics, and drink beer. Be¬ 
fore the door stood a tall yellow signpost, from which 
hung a white sign emblazoned with a fierce bald- 
headed eagle, holding an olive branch in one claw, and 
a flash of forked lightning in the other. Underneath 
was written in large black letters, “ The Bald Eagle : 
Good Entertainment for Man and Beast : by Jona¬ 
than Dewlap, Esq.” 

One calm, sultry summer evening, the knot of 
village politicians had assembled, according to cus¬ 
tom, at the tavern door. At the entrance sat the 
landlord. Justice of the Peace and Quorum, lolling 
in a rocking-chair, and dozing over the columns of an 
electioneering handbill. Along the benches of the 
portico were seated the village attorney, the school¬ 
master, the tailor, and other personages of less note, 
but not less idle, nor less devoted to the affairs of the 
nation. 


343 


APPENDIX 


To this worthy assembly of patriotic citizens the 
schoolmaster was drowsily doling forth the contents 
of the latest Gazette. It was at that memorable epoch 
of our national history when Lafayette returned to 
visit, in the evening of his days, the land that owed so 
much to his youthful enthusiasm ; and to see, in the 
soft decline of life, the consummation of his singular 
glory, in the bosom of that country where it first be¬ 
gan. His approach was everywhere hailed with heart¬ 
stirring joy. There was but one voice throughout 
the land, and every village through which he passed 
hailed him with rural festivities, addresses, odes, and a 
dinner at the tavern. 

Every step of his journey was regularly and minutely 
recorded in those voluminous chronicles of our country, 
the newspapers ; and column after column was filled 
with long notices of the dinners he had eaten, and of 
the toasts drank, and of the songs sung on the oc¬ 
casion. 

As the schoolmaster detailed to the group around 
him an account of these busy festivals, which were so 
rapidly succeeding each other all over the country, the 
little soul he possessed kindled up within him. With 
true oratorical emphasis he repeated a long list of 
toasts, drank on a recent celebration of the kind, — 
‘‘The American Eagle,” “ The Day we celebrate,” 
^ The New England Fair,” “ The Heroes who fought, 
bled, and died at Bunker Hill, of which I am one !” 
— and a thousand others equally patriotic. He was 
interrupted by the merry notes of the stage horn, 
twanging in long-drawn blasts over the blue hills that 
skirted the village; and shortly after a cloud of dust 
344 


THE BALD EAGLE 


came rolling its light volume along the road, and the 
stagecoach wheeled up to the door. 

It was driven by a stout, thick-set young fellow, with 
a glowing red face, that peeped out from under the 
wide brim of a white hat, like the setting sun from 
beneath a summer cloud. He was dressed in a wren¬ 
tailed gingham coat, with pocket holes outside, and a 
pair of gray linen pantaloons, buttoned down each leg 
with a row of yellow bell buttons. His vest was striped 
with red and blue, and around his neck he wore a 
colored silk handkerchief, tied in a loose knot before, 
and tucked in at the waistband. Beside him on his 
coach box sat two dusty travellers in riding-caps, and 
the group within presented an uncomfortable picture 
of the miseries of travelling in a stagecoach in the 
month of June. 

In an instant all was noise and confusion in the 
bar-room of the inn. Travellers that had just arrived, 
and those about to set off in the evening coach, came 
crowding in with their baggage, — some eager to se¬ 
cure places, and others lodgings. A noisy group was 
gathered at the bar, within which the landlady was 
bouncing to and fro in a huff, and jingling a great 
bunch of keys, like some wild animal at a raree-show, 
stalking about its cage, whisking its tail, and jingling 
its iron chain. 

The fireplace was filled with pine boughs and as¬ 
paragus tops; and over it the wall was covered with 
advertisements of new-invented machines, patent med¬ 
icines, tollgate and turnpike companies, and coarse 
prints of steamboats, stagecoaches, opposition lines, 
and Fortune’s home forever. In one corner stood an 
345 


APPENDIX 


old-fashioned oaken settee, with high back and crooked 
elbows, which served as a seat by day, and a bed by 
night; in another was a pile of trunks and different 
articles of a traveller’s equipage; travelling-coats hung 
here and there about the room ; and the atmosphere 
was thick with the smoke of tobacco and the fumes of 
brandy. 

At length the sound of wheels was heard at the door. 

Stage ready! ” shouted the coachman, putting his 
head in at the door: there was a hurry and bustle about 
the room; the travellers crowded out; a short pause 
succeeded; the carriage door was slammed to in haste ; 
and the coach wheeled away, and disappeared in the 
dusk of evening. 

The sound of its wheels had hardly ceased to be 
heard, when the tailor entered the bar-room with a 
newspaper in his hand, and strutted up to the squire 
and the schoolmaster, who sat talking together upon 
the settee, with a step that would have done honor to 
the tragedy hero of a strolling theatre. He had just 
received the tidings that Lafayette was on his way 
north. The stage driver had brought the news ; the 
passengers confirmed it; it was in the newspapers; and 
of course there could be no doubt upon the subject. 
It now became a general topic of conversation in the 
bar-room. The villagers came in one by one : all were 
on tiptoe; all talked together, — Lafayette, the Mar¬ 
quis, the Gin’ral! He would pass through the village 
in two days from then. What was to be done ? The 
town authorities were at their wits’ end, and were 
quite as anxious to know how they should receive 
their venerable guest as they were to receive him. 

346 


THE BALD EAGLE 


In the meantime the news took wing. There was 
a crowd at the door of the Post Office, talking with 
becoming zeal upon the subject: the boys in the street 
gave three cheers, and shouted ‘‘ Lafayette forever! ** 
and in less than ten minutes the approaching jubilee 
was known and talked of in every nook and corner of 
the village. The town authorities assembled in the 
little back parlor of the inn, to discuss the subject 
more at leisure over a mug of cider, and conclude 
upon the necessary arrangements for the occasion. 
Here they continued with closed doors until a late 
hour; and, after much debate, finally resolved to deco¬ 
rate the tavern hall, prepare a great dinner, order out 
the militia, and take the General by surprise. The 
lawyer was appointed to write an oration, and the 
schoolmaster an ode, for the occasion. 

As night advanced, the crowd gradually dispersed 
from the street. Silence succeeded to the hum of re¬ 
joicing, and nothing was heard throughout the village 
but the occasional bark of a dog, the creaking of the 
tavern sign, and the no less musical accents of the one- 
keyed flute of the schoolmaster, who, perched at his 
chamber window in nightgown and slippers, serenaded 
the neighborhood with Fire on the Mountains and 
half of Washington’s March; whilst the grocer, who 
lived next door, roused from sweet dreams of treacle 
and brown sugar, lay tossing in his bed, and wishing 
the deuce would take the schoolmaster, with his Latin 
and his one-keyed flute. 

As day began to peep, next morning, the tailor was 
seen to issue out of the inn yard in the landlord’s 
yellow wagon, with the negro hostler Caesar mounted 

347 


APPENDIX 


behind, thumping about in the tail of the vehicle, and 
grinning with huge delight. As the gray of morning 
mellowed, life began its course again in the little vil¬ 
lage. The cock hailed the daylight cheerly; the sheep 
bleated from the hills; the sky grew softer and clearer ; 
the blue mountains caught the rising sun ; and the 
mass of white vapor, that filled the valley, began to 
toss and roll itself away, like ebb of a feathery sea. 
Then the bustle of advancing day began : doors and 
windows were thrown open j the gate creaked on its 
hinge ; carts rattled by j villagers were moving in the 
streets j and the little world began to go, like some 
ponderous machine, that, wheel after wheel, is gradu¬ 
ally put in motion. 

In a short time the tailor was seen slowly returning 
along the road, with a wagonload of pine boughs and 
evergreens. The wagon was unloaded at the tavern 
door, and its precious cargo carried up into the hall, 
where the tailor, in his shirt sleeves, danced and ca¬ 
pered about the room, with a hatchet in one hand 
and a long knife in the other, like an Indian warrior 
before going to battle. In a moment the walls were 
stripped of the faded emblems of former holidays: 
garlands of withered roses were trampled underfoot; 
old stars, that had lost their lustre, were seen to fall; 
and the white pine chandelier was robbed of its yellow 
coat, and dangled from the ceiling, quite woe-begone 
and emaciated. But erelong the whole room was 
again filled with arches, and garlands, and festoons, 
and stars, and all kinds of singular devices in green 
leaves and asparagus tops. Over the chimney-piece 
were suspended two American flags, with a portrait 

348 


THE BALD EAGLE 


of General Washington beneath them ; and the names 
of Trenton, Yorktown, Bunker Hill, etc., peeped out 
from between the evergreens, cut in red morocco, and 
fastened to the wall with a profusion of brass nails. 
Every part of the room was liberally decorated with 
paper eagles; and in a corner hung a little black ship, 
rigged with twine, and armed with a whole broadside 
of umbrella tips. 

It were in vain to attempt a description of all the 
wonders that started up beneath the tailor’s hand, as 
from the touch of a magician’s wand. In a word, 
before night everything was in readiness. Travellers, 
that arrived in the evening, brought information that 
the General would pass through the village at noon the 
next day, but without the slightest expectation of the 
jubilee that awaited him. The tailor was beside him¬ 
self with joy, at the news, and pictured to himself 
with good-natured self-complacency the surprise and 
delight of the venerable patriot, when he should receive 
the public honors prepared for him, and the new blue 
coat, with bright buttons and velvet collar, which was 
then making at his shop. 

In the meantime the landlady had been busy in mak¬ 
ing preparations for a sumptuous dinner; the lawyer 
had been locked up all day, hard at work upon his ora¬ 
tion ; and the pedagogue was hard ridden by the phan¬ 
tom of a poetic eulogy, that bestrode his imagination 
like the nightmare. Nothing was heard in the village 
but the bustle of preparation, and the martial music of 
drums and fifes. For a while the ponderous wheel 
of labor seemed to stand still. The clatter of the 
cooper’s mallet was silent; the painter left his brush, 
349 


APPENDIX 


the cobbler his awl; and the blacksmith’s bellows lay 
sound asleep, with its nose buried in the ashes. 

The next morning at daybreak the whole military 
force of the town was marshalled forth in front of the 
tavern, “ armed and equipped as the law directs.” Con¬ 
spicuous among this multitude stood the tailor, arrayed 
in a coat of his own making, all lace and buttons, and 
a pair of buff pantaloons, drawn up so tight that he 
could hardly touch his feet to the ground. He wore 
a military hat, shaped like a clam shell, with little white 
goose feathers stuck all round the edge. By his side 
stood the gigantic figure of the blacksmith, in rusty 
regimentals. At length the roll of the drum announced 
the order for forming the ranks, and the valiant host 
displayed itself in a long wavering line. Here stood 
a tall lantern-jawed fellow, all legs, furbished up with 
a red waistcoat and shining green coat, a little round 
wool hat perched on the back of his head, and down¬ 
ward tapering off in a pair of yellow nankeens, twisted 
and wrinkled about the knees, as if his legs had been 
screwed into them. Beside him stood a long-waisted 
being, with a head like a hurra’s nest, set off with a 
willow hat, and a face that looked as if it were made 
of sole leather, and a gash cut in the middle of it for a 
mouth. Next came a little man with fierce black 
whiskers and sugar-loaf hat, equipped with a long fowl¬ 
ing piece, a powder horn, and a white canvas knap¬ 
sack with a red star on the back of it; then a country 
bumpkin standing bolt upright, his head elevated, his 
toes turned out, holding fast to his gun with one hand, 
and keeping the other spread out upon his right thigh. 
Then figured the descendant of some Revolutionary 

350 


THE BALD EAGLE 


veteran, arrayed in the uniform and bearing the arms 
and accoutrements of his ancestor, a cocked hat on 
his head, a heavy musket on his shoulder, and on his 
back a large knapsack marked U. S. Here was a man 
in straw hat and gingham jacket; and there a pale, 
nervous fellow, buttoned up to the chin in a drab great¬ 
coat, to guard him against the morning air, and keep 
out the fever and ague. 

“Attention the whole ! Front face! Eyes right! 
Eyes left ! Steady! Attention to the roll call ! ” 
shouted the blacksmith, in a voice like a volcano. 

“ Peleg Popgun ! 

“ Here.” 

“ Tribulation Sheepshanks ! ” 

“ He-e-e-re.” 

“ Return Jonathan Babcock ! ” 

“ Here.” 

And so on through a whole catalogue of long, hard 
names. 

“Attention! Shoulder — arms! Very well. Fall 
back there on the extreme left ! No talking in the 
ranks ! Present — arms ! Squire Wiggins, you ’re not 
in the line; if you please, a little farther in, a little 
farther out; there, I guess that will do! Carry — arms! 
Very well done. Quick time, upon your post — 
march ! 

The little red-coated drummer flourished his drum¬ 
sticks, the bandy-legged fifer struck up Yankee Doodle, 
Caesar showed his flat face over the horizon of a great 
bass drum, like the moon in an eclipse, the tailor 
brandished his sword, and the whole company, wheel¬ 
ing with some confusion round the tavern signpost, 

351 


APPENDIX 


streamed down the road, covered with dust, and fol¬ 
lowed by a troop of draggle-tailed boys. 

As soon as this company had disappeared, and the 
dub of its drum ceased to be heard, the too-too of a 
shrill trumpet sounded across the plains, and a troop 
of horse came riding up. The leader was a jolly, round- 
faced butcher, with a red foxtail nodding over his 
head, and came spurring on, with his elbows flapping 
up and down like a pair of wings. As he approached 
the tavern, he ordered the troop to wheel, and form a 
line in front,— a manoeuvre which, though somewhat 
arduous, was nevertheless executed with wonderful 
skill and precision. 

This body of light horse was the pride of the whole 
country round, and was mounted and caparisoned in 
a style of splendor that dazzled the eyes of all the 
village. Each horseman wore a cap of bearskin 
crested with a foxtail, a short blue jacket faced with 
yellow and profusely ornamented with red morocco 
and quality binding. The pantaloons were of the same 
color as the jacket, and were trimmed with yellow 
cord. Some rode with long stirrups, some with short 
stirrups, and some with no stirrups at all; some sat per¬ 
pendicular upon their saddles, some at an obtuse angle, 
and others at an angle of forty-five. One was mounted 
on a tall one-eyed bone setter, with his tail and ears 
cropped; another on a little red nag, with shaggy mane 
and long switch tail, and as vicious as if the very devil 
were in him. Here was a great fellow, with long curly 
whiskers, looking as fierce as Mars himself; there, a 
little hook-nosed creature, with red crest, short spurs, 
elbows stuck out, and jacket cocked up behind, look- 
352 


“ Attention to the roll call! ” 


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THE BALD EAGLE 

ing like a barn door rooster” with his tail clipped, 
just preparing to crow. 

When this formidable troop was formed to the sat¬ 
isfaction of their leader, the word of command was 
given, and they went through the sword exercise, hew¬ 
ing and cutting the air in all directions with the most 
cool and deliberate courage. The order was then 
given to draw pistols. Ready! Aim ! Fire! Pop-pop- 
poo, went the pistols. Too-too-too, went the trum¬ 
pet. The horses took fright at the sound: some 
plunged; others reared and kicked; and others started 
out of the line, and capered up and down “ like mad” 
The captain being satisfied with this display of the 
military discipline of his troop, they wheeled off in 
sections, and rode gallantly into the tavern yard, to 
recruit from the fatigues of the morning. 

Crowds of country people now came driving in from 
all directions, to see the fun and the General. The 
honest farmer, in broad-brimmed hat and broad-skirted 
coat, jogged slowly on, with his wife and half a dozen 
blooming daughters, in a square top chaise; and coun¬ 
try beaux, in all their Sunday finery, came racing 
along in wagons, or parading round on horseback to 
win a sidelong look from some fair country lass in 
gypsy hat and blue ribbons. 

In the meantime the schoolmaster was far from 
being idle. His scholars had been assembled at an 
early hour, and after a deal of drilling and good advice 
were arranged in a line in front of the schoolhouse, 
to bask in the sun and wait for the General. The 
little girls had wreaths of roses upon their heads, and 
baskets of flowers in their hands; and the boys carried 
353 


APPENDIX 


Bibles, and wore papers on their hats inscribed “Wel¬ 
come, Lafayette/' The schoolmaster walked up and 
down before them, with a rattan in his hand, repeating 
to himself his poetic eulogy; stopping now and then 
to rap some unlucky little rogue over the knuckles 
for misdemeanor; shaking one to make him turn out 
his toes, and pulling another’s ear to make him hold 
up his head and look like a man. 

In this manner the morning wore away, and the 
hour at which it had been rumored that the General 
was to arrive drew near. The whole military force, 
both foot and horse, was then summoned together in 
front of the tavern, and formed into a hollow square, 
and the colonel, a swarthy knight of the forge, by the 
aid of a scrawl, written by the squire and placed in 
the crown of his hat, made a most eloquent and pa¬ 
triotic harangue, in which he called the soldiers his 
“ brothers in arms, the hope of their country, the terror 
of their enemies, the bulwark of liberty, and the safe¬ 
guard of the fair sex.” They were then wheeled back 
again into a line, and dismissed for ten minutes. 

An hour or two previous, an honest old black, 
named Boaz, had been stationed upon the highroad, 
not far from the entrance of the village, equipped with 
a loaded gun, which he was ordered to discharge by 
way of signal, as soon as the General should appear. 
Full of the importance and dignity of his office, Boaz 
marched to and fro across the dusty road, with his 
musket ready cocked and his finger on the trigger. 
This manoeuvring in the sun, however, diminished 
the temperature of his enthusiasm in proportion as it 
increased that of his body, till at length he sat down 
354 


THE BALD EAGLE 


on a stump in the shade, and, leaning his musket 
against the trunk of a tree, took a short-stemmed pipe 
out of his pocket, and began to smoke. As noon drew 
near, he grew hungry and homesick; his heart sunk 
into his stomach. His African philosophy dwindled 
apace into a mere theory. Overpowered by the heat 
of the weather he grew drowsy; his pipe fell from his 
mouth; his head lost its equipoise, and dropped, like a 
poppy, upon his breast; and sliding gently from his 
seat, he fell asleep at the root of the tree. He was 
aroused from his slumber by the noise of an empty 
wagon, that came rattling along a crossroad near 
him. Thus suddenly awakened, the thought of the 
General’s approach, the idea of being caught sleeping 
at his post, and the shame of having given the signal 
too late flashed together across his bewildered mind, 
and springing upon his feet, he caught his musket, 
shut both eyes, and fired, to the utter consternation of 
the wagoner, whose horses took fright at the sound, 
and became unmanageable. Poor Boaz, when he saw 
the mistake he had made and the mischief he had 
done, did not wait long to deliberate, but, throwing his 
musket over his shoulder, bounded into the woods, 
and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. 

The sharp report of the gun rang far and wide 
through the hush of noontide, awakening many a 
drowsy echo that grumbled in the distance, like a man 
aroused untimely from his rest. At the sound of the 
long-expected signal gun, the whole village was put 
in motion. The drum beat to order, the ranks were 
formed in haste, and the whole military force moved off 
to escort the General in, amid the waving of banners, 
355 


APPENDIX 


the roll of drums, the scream of fifes, and the twang 
of the horse trumpet. 

All was now anxious expectation at the village. 
The moments passed like hours. The lawyer appeared 
at the tavern door, with his speech in his hand; the 
schoolmaster and his scholars stood broiling in the sun, 
and many a searching look was cast along the dusty 
highway to descry some indication of their guest’s 
approach. Sometimes a little cloud of dust, rolling 
along the distant road, would cheat them with a vain 
illusion. Then the report of musketry and the roll 
of drums, rattling among the hills and dying on the 
breeze, would inspire the fugitive hope that he had at 
length arrived, and a murmur of eager expectation 
would run from mouth to mouth. “ There he 
comes ! — That’s he ! ” and the people would crowd 
into the street, to be again disappointed. 

One o’clock arrived; two, three, but no General! 
The dinner was overdone, — the landlady in great 
tribulation, the cook in a great passion. The gloom 
of disappointment began to settle on many a counte¬ 
nance. The people looked doubtingly at each other, 
and guessed. The sky, too, began to lower. Vol¬ 
umes of black clouds piled themselves up in the west, 
and threatened a storm. The ducks were unusually 
noisy and quarrelsome around the green pool in the 
stable yard, and a flock of ill-boding crows were hold¬ 
ing ominous consultation round the top of a tall pine. 
Everything gave indication of an approaching thunder 
gust. A distant irregular peal rattled along the sky, 
like a volley of musketry. They thought it was a salute 
to the General. Soon after the air grew damp and 

356 


THE BALD EAGLE 


misty, it began to drizzle, a few scattered drops pat¬ 
tered on the roofs, and it set in to rain. 

A scene of confusion ensued. The pedagogue and 
his disciples took shelter in the schoolhouse; the 
crowd dispersed in all directions, with handkerchiefs 
thrown over their heads and their gowns tucked up; 
and everything looked dismal and disheartening. The 
bar-room was full of disconsolate faces. Some tried 
to keep their spirits up by drinking; others wished to 
laugh the matter off; and others stood with their hands 
in their pockets, looking out of the window to see it 
rain, and making wry faces. 

Night drew on apace, and the rain continued. Still 
nothing was to be heard of the General. Some were 
for despatching a messenger to ascertain the cause of 
this delay, but who would go out in such a storm ! At 
length the monotonous too-too of the horse trumpet 
was heard, there was a great clattering and splashing 
of hoofs at the door, and the troop reined up, spattered 
with mud, drenched through and through, and com¬ 
pletely crestfallen. Not long after, the foot company 
came straggling in, dripping wet, and diminished to 
one half its number by desertions. The tailor entered 
the bar-room, reeking and disconsolate, a complete 
epitome of the miseries of human life written in his 
face. The feathers were torn out of his clam-shell 
hat, his coat was thoroughly sponged, his boots full 
of water, and his buff pantaloons clung tighter than 
ever to his little legs. He trembled like a leaf: one 
might have taken him for Fever and Ague personified. 
The blacksmith, on the contrary, seemed to dread the 
water as little as if it were his element. The rain did 

357 


APPENDIX 


not penetrate him, and he rolled into the bar-room 
like a great sea calf, that, after sporting about in the 
waves, tumbles himself out upon the sand to dry. 

A thousand questions were asked at once about the 
General, but there was nobody to answer them. They 
had seen nothing of him, they had heard nothing of 
him, they knew nothing of him! Their spirit and 
patience were completely soaked out of them; no pa¬ 
triotism was proof against such torrents of rain. 

Every heart seemed now to sink in despair. Every 
hope had given way, when the twang of the stage horn 
was heard, sending forth its long-drawn cadences, and 
enlivening the gloom of a rainy twilight. The coach 
dashed up to the door. It was empty, not a solitary 
passenger. The coachman came in without a dry 
thread about him. A little stream of water trickled 
down his back from the rim of his hat. There was 
something dismally ominous in his look; he seemed to 
be a messenger of bad news. 

“ The Gin’ral! the Gin'ral! where’s the Gin’ral ? ” 

“ He’s gone on by another road. So much for the 
opposition line and the new turnpike ! ” said the coach¬ 
man, as he tossed off a glass of New England. 

“He has lost a speech ! said the lawyer. 

“ He has lost a coat ! ” said the tailor. 

“ He has lost a dinner ! ” said the landlord. 

It was a gloomy night at the Bald Eagle. A few 
boon companions sat late over their bottle, drank hard, 
and tried to be merry ; but it would not do. Good 
humor flagged, the jokes were bad, the laughter forced, 
and one after another slunk away to bed, full of bad 
liquor, and reeling with the fumes of brandy and beer. 

358 








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